Warcraft 1. Chapter 1

**1.**

Prologue

Whitecrow sat in the small cottage in the Barrens, chatting with Ferruk and Nerissa. It had been months since he'd seen them, and it was that time of the year for him. They were visiting the famous Groll and Shantille, who were out and about at the moment, but due back anytime. Ferruk and Nerissa had met them after the Nerissa Accords had become Horde law.

Despite his impatience, Whitecrow had agreed to wait for them to return before continuing on his journey. Nerissa politely claimed she'd heard a sound outside, and with a kiss on Ferruk's cheek, left to go see what it was, giving Whitecrow and Ferruk the perfect opportunity to talk.

"Going to Ashenvale again, are you?" Ferruk asked as the door closed behind his wife.

"Every year," Whitecrow told him tersely. "I've never missed."

"It's been years, W.C. If she were going to come, she would have." His face was sympathetic, and Whitecrow turned away, unable to see the pity in his friend's eyes.

"Maybe soon, I'll stop going. But not this year," was Whitecrow's answer.

The door opened, and a heavily pregnant elf walked in, followed by Nerissa, and then by a massive orc. Nerissa made introductions, and Whitecrow sat back down after the women were seated.

"So, you're just traveling though?" Groll's voice was deep and mellow.

"Yes, I'm on my way to Ashenvale. It's a yearly trip for me," Whitecrow told him.

Shrewdly, Shantille responded from the other side of the table, "I sense a mystery. Care to satisfy my curiosity?"

"No," Whitecrow said, his voice rumbling deeply within his chest.

She sighed dramatically, and Groll snickered. She tossed a spoon at him, which he caught before laughing openly. "Don't mind my wife," he told Whitecrow, "she's so used to getting her way without argument every time she's pregnant that she just doesn't know what the word 'no' means anymore."

"Maybe you ought to give her a break from being pregnant," Whitecrow suggested with a chuckle.

"It's not my fault," Groll told him smugly, "she rapes me, you see."

An outraged gasp from Shantille had them all laughing, even Shantille joining in, in the end.

"Well," Whitecrow told them some time later, after their impromptu luncheon had been cleared away, "I think I'll be on my way. I'm in a bit of a rush to get there and get settled in."

They walked him to the door, the men coming out with him. Ferruk held the reins of his kodo as Whitecrow mounted, patting it on the shoulder as he said, with a voice thick with emotion, "Be careful, old friend. I hope you find what you're looking for."

He turned away at Whitecrow's nod, and stood beside Groll. The pair watched him ride away before Groll turned to Ferruk. "I don't suppose you'll tell me what this is all about?" When he received the expected shake of the head from Ferruk, he sighed. "You would tell me if it were anything that endangered the Horde, though, wouldn't you?"

Ferruk scowled at him, and Groll sighed. "I know. But you have to know that I had to ask, too." Ferruk relented, nodding slightly.

As the two turned back to go inside, they were followed by the "caw, caw, caw" of a crow. When the door shut, the strange bird that had uttered it lifted from the roof of the cabin and took wing in the direction that Whitecrow had already flown on his kodo.

**2.**

Many Years Past

The black calf was exhausted. His fur was matted in some places, rubbed down to skin in others. His coat was dulled by dust that had become mud from the sweat that drenched him. But he didn't stop, pursued as he was by Night Elf scouts of an unknown number.

He didn't remember ending up here. He'd traveled through dangerous lands, surviving by hook and by crook, but growing ever more hungry and frightened. He'd fed himself somewhat, but he couldn't keep up with his massive body's demand. He was already big for a bull, and still growing.

It was the worst possible scenario for him, though. Not only was he starving, and lost, but now he was hunted by those whom he knew he could not resist or overcome. Death seemed nearer and nearer with every passing moment as darkness teased around the edge of his vision.

Yet he lifted one hoof and put it in front of the other. Again. Then again. Just one more time… maybe one more.

He stumbled, leaning heavily against a tree. If only he hadn't got caught up in watching that Night Elf bathe. If only he had run away the moment he saw her. If only he'd… done everything differently from the beginning.

His shaggy head shook as he tried to clear his vision. He knew that he was in desperate trouble now, because he was hallucinating. A bird had landed on the branch of the tree he was leaning against.

It was white and cream, with beady red eyes that stared at him. The beast opened its beak, and screamed at Pingowingo. "Caw, caw caw!" Pingowingo blinked, staring at it. Then he blinked again, slowly and carefully.

It was still there. It hopped down the branch towards him. "Caw, caw, caw!" it shrieked again. Then it hopped to a nearby tree. Shaking his head, Pingowingo followed it, tail dragging in the dirt behind him.

Soon, it was only the sound of the strange bird's cawing that led him onwards. He couldn't see, his vision hazed over by exhaustion and weariness. He staggered from tree to tree, with no knowledge whatsoever of where he was.

The briny scent of the ocean reached him, making his nostrils twitch. He staggered onwards, though. He was on the vision quest that would make him into a full-fledged bull, no longer a calf. So he followed the creature of his vision, as any true vision-questing Tauren would do. The vision quest was the rite of passage undertaken in the 18th summer of life. Surviving it meant social acceptance of the Bull he had become on his birthday.

He was tired- too tired. He wasn't going to make it; he knew it in his very bones. He would never become a bull, dying a fledgling calf. Despair deepened, knifing into his gut like a sharp piece of iron.

Eventually, he did give out. The albino crow hopped towards him, its beady red eyes malevolent and sharp. It pecked at his nose, driving excruciating pain through his whole body. He thought to himself, _Okay, okay, I'm coming_.

He crawled onwards, then, unable to drag himself to his feet. Then he was there. He landed, muzzle-first, in a puddle of water. He drank deeply, sucking in great gulps of the precious fluid.

Then he slept. The purifying, healing waters of the Sunwell poured through him, restoring him somewhat, and easing the painful cramping of his muscles. The albino hopped towards him, its head cocking backwards towards the woman following it.

"Caw," it said to her. She gathered Power, and began to chant. "CAW!" screamed the crow, its wings flapping agitatedly as it hopped in front of the fallen Tauren. The woman's words ceased. She stared at the albino. "Caw!" it told her, and flapped away.

She sighed and sat down. Then, changing her mind, she left food for the bull, and left. If he could find her, then she would help him. It was her test, to see if she had understood the message of the albino crow, the only she had ever seen.

So far as she was concerned, not killing him was gift enough. She would also mislead the trackers she knew followed him. That was all, though, unless he found her again. Then… well, then she would see what came of things.

**3.**

Pingowingo followed the cawing of the albino again. He'd found himself at a strange well, and found a piece of meat beside him. At first, he had devoured the whole thing, before realizing it was cooked. A thrill of fear ran through him when he had eaten, until he realized it was ridiculous to think that he'd be poisoned. If whomever had left it intended to kill him, poison would have been the least likely route.

So he went on his way, still exhausted, his coat still matted or bald or dirty. He had considered cleaning himself in the water of the well, but somehow had felt that it would be in some way sacrilegious to do so. So he hadn't.

Instead, he'd tried to get his bearings, only to find the albino crow screaming at him again. He followed it, willing to accept the strangeness of it because of the vision quest.

As he walked, he wondered idly if white crows were also guardians of the Underworld, and if they carried souls there, as did their black brethren. Then he realized that there was probably no answer to this question, since doubtless no one knew they existed. Maybe none did, besides this one.

He soon lost the train of thought, though, as his body's weakness tugged at him. He followed in a daze, staggering often, though not as often now as before.

It was this that found him staggering into a camp before he even realized it was there. It was, surprisingly, the scent of food that jerked him out of the fog, an instant before the crow's familiar "Caw, caw, caw!" split the air.

He looked up groggily, to find himself face-to-face with the very thing he dreaded most: a Night Elf scout.

As if things couldn't get worse, though, the crow's shrieks had just awakened her. He might actually have stumbled right through her camp and on his way if it hadn't seen fit to scream right then. Rage and fear filled him in equal measure.

As the elf's lilting voice filled the air, he raged inside. He turned and began to run, but roots leaped up out of the ground, wrapping around his legs and sprawling him across the grass.

"Vrek da alock," the elf told him. He had no idea what she'd said; it was a language he didn't know. To him, it was gibberish at its finest.

She squatted down beside him, and shocked him to the core of his soul. She handed him some food, then sat down on a log beside her campfire. She patted the log, as if in invitation. He stared at her, his liquid eyes blinking foolishly.

She smiled, for little did the young bull know, but he looked almost adorable, despite his dangerous size and his already vicious horns. He slowly sat up, but didn't approach her, even when the roots fell away.

"A shinklesims," she told him. He blinked again. "En vit secethfrizen ve jes nesemitz." He still didn't understand her, of course. But her voice sounded kind, as if he were a frightened, wild animal she was trying to put at ease. And, he realized, maybe he was.

To what purpose, he had no idea, but it was better than what he expected, so he ate ravenously. As he did so, he kept her in the corner of his eye, scared that she might change her mind at any moment.

She just smiled at him. When he was done, she gestured at him to follow. Wary, he decided to do so. He was pleased when they came out onto a beach by the ocean.

Then he stared in shock as she let the robe she wore drop to the ground. Leggings and a tunic followed along with various other clothes. Then, without looking at him, she walked into the water, her lilac hips swaying slightly as her pale, nearly white hair swayed in synch with them.

She wasn't a heifer, or a cow. He shouldn't be looking at her. He shouldn't be reacting to her as he was. She was beautiful, beyond anything he'd ever seen, yes. But that was no excuse for being sexually aroused by a species not his own, was it?

He turned away, unable to join her so long as his body was rampaging with lust. Finally, he made a decision. He walked straight into the water with his clothes still on. They needed to be washed anyway, so why not? Seawater might not be the best way to clean them, but seawater was better than mud and sweat and blood.

Once in the water, he began to disrobe, washing his clothing first, and then himself. Sand made an excellent scrubber, and soon he had forgotten all about the elf. It felt so unbelievably good to be fresh and clean.

Finally done, he stepped out of the water, realizing belatedly that he had nothing to replace the clothes he had removed and washed. To his surprise, he found a robe lying on the ground. It was big enough to fit him, and remarkably lacking in femininity.

He hesitated, hoping she had left it, not someone else. He took it after a few moments' thought. Thus dressed, he shrugged and returned to the camp. The elf looked up as he walked in, nodded at him, and went back to sewing. She was humming as she worked, and Pingowingo was enthralled by the sweetness of her voice.

There was surprisingly little to do, so he dug out a small axe from his pack, making calming motions when she leaped up the moment he did so. Then he walked over to the small stack of firewood she had gathered, and started chopping.

The wariness drained out of her, and she finally sat and went back to her work. He soon ran out of wood in the tiny pile, and went into the nearby woods for more.

As he did so, he felt foolish in the robe, hoping that his leathers would soon be dried out. A bull in a skirt? It was just wrong, and he hoped he wouldn't be seen… of course he wouldn't, so far away from home. He fought back pain and even the threat of tears. Perhaps he would never see home again. Perhaps this was the end of it—of him.

As he wandered in the woods, he felt some of his fear melting away, though. It was beautiful here. Wherever he was, whatever this place was, it had an ancient majesty to it.

He'd gathered enough, he decided, and headed back to camp. It wasn't long, though, before he realized that he was lost.

Once more, despair crawled up his spine. He shook his shaggy mane as if that would dispel the feeling.

It didn't. If anything, it gave him an uncanny feeling of being watched.

He searched the woods, finding nothing there except the normal wildlife for the area, so far as he knew.

Then it dropped down in front of him. It was large, and blue-black, with a mouth full of fangs. Dropping the pile of wood, Pingowingo ran, lowing with unconcealable terror.

The stress of the journey thus far had finally taken its toll, and even as the albino soared over his head with a cacophony of shrieks, he raced away from the menacing cat that had nearly landed on top of his head.

Branches whipped him in the face as he fled, but he paid them no need, even as they laced his muzzle with bright stripes of red.

Finally convinced that he wasn't going to be eaten alive, he stopped running and leaned his back against a tree.

Then she was there again. The elf. Her golden eyes stared into his, and she reached out to run a finger down the bridge of his muzzle. It came away wet with blood. She shook her head at him, and this time he understood her perfectly: "Tsk, tsk, tsk."

Though any Tauren watching might have thought it impossible, his ears drooped even further, rolling ever more downwards. Humiliated, he tucked his muzzle to his chest. She looked at him levelly for a moment, and then pointed two fingers towards her eyes in a 'watch me' gesture.

Then, to his shock, she turned into the cat that had nearly landed on his head.

He knew that druids of the Tauren clans could become cats, but they little resembled the one this woman had just turned into.

Yet still, he felt relief as he sank to the ground beside her feline form. He buried his hands in her black fur, the two of them seeming to meld together where they touched.

Somehow, he could feel no more fear or animosity towards her. It all drained out of him in that moment, and never returned.

They went back for the wood he had dropped, and he soon found himself following her into the camp. She had returned to her native form, to his chagrin, and his body was fully reacting to it by the time they made it back.

She made no comment on his obvious arousal, simply prepared for bed while he rebuilt the fire. He had no idea if she had even noticed. He wasn't sure if he was relieved, or embarrassed.

His body, however, was tired. Indeed, he was so tired that he actually fell asleep, despite the nearness of a luscious female body.

**4.**

He woke and yawned, stretching his aching body. He was immensely sore, and was glad to see that he'd gathered enough firewood for several days. Strength was one of the benefits of being too big to fit into other races' doors.

She was awake, the food she was cooking rousing him from the deep sleep he'd fallen into. One day, many years from then, he would understand why that was bad for one's health, or potentially so, but for now, his young body knew what it needed and took it.

He didn't assume that she would let him have some of her food, but he was grateful when she did. He smiled, his lips curling upwards, and bobbed his head. She cocked her head to the side and watched him for a moment, then said something in her singsong voice. He assumed it was something like, 'you're welcome,' and left it at that.

He tried to eat more slowly this time, resulting in her finishing before he did. She came over to him, and sat down beside him on the ground. She held a brush, and pointed at him, patting his arm.

He reached for it, but she pulled it away and gestured towards his food. He went back to eating, glad that she didn't mind him waiting until he was done. He knew he was in bad need of grooming, but his hunger was the greater pain at the moment.

Then she reached out and began to brush him. He hadn't been brushed since he was a youngling, by anyone but himself, and nearly jumped out of his skin.

Scowling, he shook his head at her, his ears snapping backwards in anger. She held her hands up defensively, and put the brush on the ground beside him, patting it before walking away.

He suddenly felt embarrassed. Surely she didn't understand the intimacy of the act she had just attempted, and he regretted rejecting her in such a manner. But he had no idea how to make amends for it.

He finished his meal, and picked up the brush in silence. As he groomed himself, he considered the problem. He was very grateful for all she'd done, and wanted to show her so. But how? They couldn't understand each other, and he couldn't speak anyway. It was part of the vision quest.

It took a long time, but he managed to get one of his arms brushed out. It still looked rather pathetic, with its ragged spots, and the bald spots that left only black skin behind to inform that once there had been gleaming black hair there.

He was proud of his work, but so very exhausted. Just the effort of brushing himself out was more than he could manage. He sighed, and met her eyes as she looked up again.

Quietly, humbly, his ears once more drooping into a downward swoop, he held the brush out towards her. She stood up without a word or even a smile to embarrass him, and took it gently.

She sat down behind him and began to brush his mane first. It was a long time before she was able to draw the brush through it in long, smooth strokes. He sighed unconsciously, the feeling familiar and pleasant and oh-so-gentle.

He almost dozed, but she was working hard to get the mats out, and it was obviously difficult going. At one point, apologetically, she took out some scissors, and snipped, very close to his skin. A large chunk of matted fur joined the growing pile.

Some time later, she began to sing, and he listened quietly to the unfamiliar melody. It was poignant, sweet, and gentle, wrapping around him like a mother's touch. It made him ache with regret and loss, yet it also helped him to relax.

They spent several hours thus, as she sang or hummed and he sat in stony silence, not protesting even when her work stung his battered skin. Finally, she gave up, and led him once more to the beach. They bathed again, but this time she waited as he went in first, politely turned away from him, as if she had sensed his problem the day before and wanted to give him his privacy.

Soon, he was clean again, as much as possible with the majority of his body still matted with dirt and clumps of fur. But for the first time in months, he felt at least some degree of well-being.

They returned to the camp, and she gestured at him to stay. Then she vanished into the woods. He laid down to think about her, lying on his back and looking up at the sky. It wasn't long before he dozed off, as he had felt like doing while she helped him with his grooming.

**5.**

The next day, she led him up the beach. She chattered away at him, and he listened to her as she pointed out things and told him names of them. He repeated them in his mind, but couldn't speak them out loud.

They walked for most of the morning, until she stopped and began to prepare a new camp. He helped her, not sure why they were stopping already, but willing to accept the decision.

They ate again, he finding that his appetite was back with a vengeance and she eating as delicately as ever. Then she sat him down and helped him remove his leather jerkin before she began to brush out his left arm.

She hummed again as she worked, and the going seemed to be easier. It made sense, as the mats had slowly begun to work themselves out on their own, now that he wasn't constantly running.

She gave up the humming when she was nearly done with his arm, beginning a running commentary. It took him a few moments, but he realized she was telling him what she was doing.

He listened as she chattered at him, occasionally looking up at him with a smile. He studied her as she worked, her fingers light and delicate on his arm. She was working now on his forearm, near the wrist, and the rhythmic strokes of the brush were gentle against his skin.

His ears tilted towards her, flickering slightly as she talked. He watched her lilac face, oval-shaped, tapering down to a dainty chin. Her golden eyes twinkled and glowed, the butterfly marking on it marked in blues that echoed her hair's ephemeral, glacial whiteness.

Her cheekbones were fine and high, her lips full… so full that he found himself staring at them for a moment before she looked up at him. He looked quickly away, his ears dropping in embarrassment.

He swallowed, ducking his head against his chest, and tried to focus on something else. He thought about growing up in Red Cloud Mesa. It didn't distract him. In fact, just trying not to think about it made him want to think about it more.

She finished grooming his arm. She looked up at him for a moment, before smiling at him. Her face seemed almost magic in that moment, and he swallowed again, looking away. He reached out for the brush, to take it from her.

She batted his hand away, chuckling at him. Then she knelt in front of him and reached forward to begin on his chest. She was so close, her slightly sweet scent strong in his nostrils. He stopped her with a hand on her wrist.

Her eyes met his, and he saw a wisdom there. She knew. It was clear in her stare as her eyes held his trapped in her gaze. They stared for a moment, before she nodded, and released the brush to him.

Now, he knew, she finally understood why grooming was so intimate and personal, and why he had refused her the first time.

He couldn't fail to notice, however, despite his youth and inexperience, that she had seemed reluctant to relinquish the brush.


	2. Chapter 2

**6.**

That afternoon, he decided that he should get some exercise. He'd noticed a dead tree on the edge of the woods near the beach, so he went and began to chop it down. Doing something strenuous simply for its own sake felt very good to him, versus the running in fear he'd been doing up to this point.

He also needed to work out some frustration. While his people taught that there was no shame in running when your life is at stake, he felt embarrassed and ashamed about it. On a deep level, he knew for certain that if he'd fought, he'd have died, but on a surface level, he was hounded by the thought that he should at least have tried.

Then again, when a youth went out on the Naming Vision Quest, they would wear only utilitarian leather clothing. No armor, just clothes. How could he be expected to survive a fight without armor?

They also couldn't talk, until they'd had their great vision. The vision wasn't always a vision, really, but it was different for everyone. Or so they were told. No one ever discussed what the big 'happening' of their vision quest was with younglings.

So Pingowingo wore the customary fetishes, hanging from his jowl braids, to inform one and all that he was on his Naming Quest. Thus no one would expect him to speak, and he would be safe among members of the Horde.

The sad fact of the matter was, though, his Naming Quest had already been longer than anyone else's that he knew of. His ears drooped. Perhaps, despite what his mentor had told him, he'd missed The Big Event that was supposed to occur during the Naming.

'You'll know it when it happens, it will be unmistakable. When it comes, you'll know that you're a Bull now. Something deep within you will alter, and you'll never be the same again.'

Well, he didn't feel altered. Unless being more scared than he'd ever been in his life, and more confused, was what his mentor meant by 'altered forever.' He could only hope not. Then again, what did he really know about it?

He was done with his work now, and lifted the chunk of tree trunk that he'd sectioned and carried it to their camp. With a mighty heave, he half dropped, half shoved the pointed bottom into the ground. Then he returned with the other, smaller section, and did the same again.

Then, satisfied with his work, he plopped down on the ground, leaning back against the bigger trunk. Now comfortable thanks to his makeshift chair, he picked up the brush she'd left out for him, pulled his breeches off to leave only his undercloth, and went to work on the matted hair on his right leg.

He looked up as she walked into the camp in her cat form. She was a lithe, sinuous creature, so sleekly black that she shone with deep blue hues. She had a crescent and a circle in pale white on her shoulder, glowing ethereally against the blue-black fur. He wasn't sure how he knew for sure it was her and not another druid of her kind, but he did.

Perhaps it was the look in her pale, glowing golden eyes. Perhaps the way she sauntered towards him in a slow, casual stroll. He wasn't sure, but he knew as surely as he knew any member of his tribe, that this was she.

She sprawled on the ground beside him; her leonine form powerful and dense with muscle. Really, as big cats went, she was a magnificent specimen. Her eyes shone with an unnatural intelligence, far above and beyond that which any wild creature might have; or any domesticated, yet simple creature, either.

No, this was no animal, despite the body she was morphed into. She was sentient, and she was studying him with the same direct regard he was giving her. Embarrassed suddenly, he went back to brushing out the mats of hair on his leg.

What was he thinking, staring at her like that? Was being in cat form an excuse? Was…

The thought left him as she began to groom his other leg, a roaring purr filling the air as she did so, much as her humming ordinarily would. He stared at her in surprise, as her coarse, bright pink tongue began to run up his fur in smooth, rhythmic strokes.

He blinked at her in consternation. It felt good. It felt shockingly good. It wasn't the same as being groomed with a brush, there was something far different about this. It felt like a caress through his fur, since there were no bristles to glide roughly against his skin. He felt the slight burrs of her cat's tongue, but they were so mild that they were simply invigorating.

The pink of her tongue against his own deeply black fur was startling in its contrast, and he tried not to be mesmerized by the stroking of it along his leg. The glow of her eyes was hooded as she closed them partway, a look that would have been sensual in the extreme on her humanoid face.

Where he had no matted or missing hair, it was almost impossible to see where her fur ended, and his began, except that hers was more blue than his. This strange melding seemed oddly symbolic to him, but he tried to shake the feeling off. It was too absurd to even consider.

He tried hard to distract himself from her, brushing harder than he had intended on his other leg. But it wasn't long before he had finished, partly because he was so rough.

Now, there was only the stroke, stroke, stroke of her tongue on his fur, and the song of her purring. He leaned back against the log and smothered a groan. Why was he letting this go on?

Somehow, in some way, it had to be shameful. Somehow, he knew that he shouldn't be thinking that her tongue, as it came closer and closer to the sheath that protected his penis, was in any way sexual.

She was an animal. Wasn't she? Or was she? An animal couldn't consent to sexual activity. But she could. In fact, she could even instigate it if she chose to. Perhaps…

He let the thought go, clenching his fist against the ground to drive it away. He was going mad.

Or perhaps it was just her tongue driving him mad. She had dropped her paw over his knee to pull his leg outwards slightly, and now she was licking… licking… licking… ever closer.

Then she did something fully unexpected. She nibbled to get a particularly stubborn mat of hair off of him. As she did so, her head bumped against his penis, still sheathed—but only barely—under his undercloth.

Oh, how sweet that nibble felt! And the vibration of her purr as her head nudged him was simply more than he could take. He leaped up and turned away from her as his penis finally pushed free of the sheath that protected it, sliding through the draped fabric of his undercloth to display prominently.

He didn't look at her, but just stepped around her, trying to keep his back to her so that she wouldn't think that he found animals arousing, and walked into the balmy water of the sea.

It didn't really help, but did give him some sense of privacy, until she paddled up behind him, purring madly still. Apparently this was one cat that didn't mind water.

She licked him again, though this time all she could reach without shoving her head underwater was his mane or his face. She got a mouthful of mane.

She started trying to clear the hair out of her mouth, without moving away from him. Her efforts, however, simply contrived to make her look more and more ridiculous as she tried to push the offending hair out with her tongue, her jaws working absurdly as she yawned and pushed, yawned and pushed.

The next thing he knew, he was laughing. His slow, deep 'heh heh heh' rolled out of him, echoing up from deep within his chest. He couldn't help it, the harder he laughed, the harder she tried to free herself, and that just made him laugh harder.

Soon, she seemed to give up the idea of loosing it while in cat from, and transformed. In so doing, the hair simply fell away. He still thought it was funny, though. Especially when she put her lovely hands on her lovely hips in a very obvious display of pique.

'Heh heh heh,' rolled out of him yet again as she scowled almost convincingly at him, before her mouth quirked upwards. Soon, though, she was laughing just as hard as he was.

Pingowingo did his best not to stare at her, yet again. She was incredibly beautiful when she laughed. Especially when she was standing naked in the ocean, laughing. Her teeth were white, her lips a deep rose, nestled in her lilac skin like berries on ice in a finely crafted bowl.

…Naked? Pingowingo's hand went up to the bridge of his muzzle. Oh dear. Yes, she was most definitely naked as the day she was born, not a stitch of clothes or even a hair ribbon in sight.

And he'd finally managed to get his raging erection under control.

Well, he had, anyway… until he saw naked breasts and lilac… um, legs.

He wasn't laughing anymore, and neither was she. His ears had turned forwards now, directly towards her. He blinked slowly, trying to think of something else—anything else. Finally, when he couldn't, he pushed past her and up to their campsite.

Keeping his back to her, he managed to get dressed. By that time, his body was back under control. He was relieved to turn around and find her in cat form again. This time, it was he who did the grooming, brushing her fur with the brush in rhythmic strokes.

And tried not to think about rhythmic stroking.

**7.**

They traveled for two more days. Two days of laughter, mutual grooming, and the simple pleasures of travel. It was enough to make a young Tauren warrior wish the world were a very different place. Enough to make him wish that the Kal'Dorei and the humans hadn't rejected the Taurens' suit to join the Alliance.

Enough to make him wish that the world were peaceful, or to make him wish that he could wake every morning of his life to the beautiful sight of golden eyes, lilac skin, and that small, private smile.

Over all, it was a pleasant way to live. The two of them carried their own private place of peace with them. Along the shore of Ashenvale, they walked, not near enough to the water to tempt the Naga that lived there, but not so far away that they couldn't visit it, should they find a safe spot to do so.

In the evenings, they groomed each other in the light of the fire, with its heat and its crackling wood to keep them company. The balmy air, the jungle's unique form of 'quiet,' and the fact that they were undisturbed made it all feel like a moment out of time for Pingowingo. He was even picking up bits and pieces of her language, given that she chattered constantly and that he'd always had an unusual knack for languages.

It all came to an abrupt halt on the third morning, though, in a way that Pingowingo would never have expected.

They arrived at a Horde outpost. Just like that, she waved him towards it, remaining still out of range to be seen by them. He stood blinking at her in surprise.

She was dumping him off. His heart sank, and he felt strangely bereft, as if he had been betrayed in some way. Didn't she want to spend more time with him? Did she not feel the sweetness of their dawning friendship?

She smiled encouragingly at him, and made sweeping, shooing motions at him, as if to say, "Go on, now, get!"

He shook his head mulishly, and crossed his arms. Then he pointed to his fetishes. He was on his Naming; he couldn't go into the Horde compound even if he had wanted to. And perversely, he didn't.

She cocked her head at him, seeming to ponder what he meant. He tapped the fetish again, then pointed at the outpost, then shook his head adamantly.

She then stood looking at him, a worried frown on her face. He scowled at her. He couldn't help it; she didn't need to look so mad that he wasn't running off at the earliest opportunity.

He knew she was far more powerful than he, but somehow, it was still immensely insulting. She didn't have to act like he was a child that she'd gotten stuck with and now couldn't be rid of. He could make it by himself, and he would.

He turned his back on her, picked his backpack back up, and walked away.

It wasn't long before he noticed that she was trotting along beside him, silent, but there. He ignored her, angry that she was now following him after trying so hard to be rid of him.

He wandered back up the beach, being devoid of direction. He didn't know where he was, and he couldn't go into the outpost and ask. Not only couldn't he talk, but going into any form of permanent village, habitation, outpost, etc. was strictly forbidden during Naming.

Most people went off, completed their naming, and came back. They didn't go so far that they became lost, wander into enemy territory, and run out of food and supplies. No, just him.

He sighed heavily. He was weary of this business, and just wanted to be on his way home. Wherever it was from here. For the moment, though, he felt like banging his head against a tree. It couldn't be this hard, could it?

They walked in silence for a while, and then she began chattering again. Here and there, he could make out a word, but mostly, it was nonsense. 'Tree' came through, as she pointed them out again. 'Beach,' and 'rest,' and 'camp.'

So she wanted to set up a camp near the trees, did she? Well, she could do it herself. He stomped off towards the water.

She grabbed his arm, and he stopped, glaring at her. She motioned towards the trees, and very clearly pleaded with him. Then she made a production of batting her eyes at him, and he fought the urge to grin.

_Oh, fine, have it your way_, he thought to himself, and nodded at her. With a smile, she led him towards the trees.

There, they set up a camp again, though it was now early afternoon. Pingowingo sat down and stared up at the sky. What was he going to do now?

"Sunoree," she said to him suddenly. He blinked, looking away from a cloud that had shaped itself into the form of a fluffy white cat.

"Sunoree," she repeated, patting herself on the chest. Then she patted him on the chest, "Sec Cree," she told him. "Sunoree, Sec Cree," she repeated, pointing to herself, and then to him.

He nodded, he understood. She was Sunoree, and she was going to call him Sec Cree. He rather liked the sound of both names. Then, she gestured towards the woods, and then back to him. She was leaving, but would be back. He nodded.

The cloud had become a stylized caricature of a totem pole with a bird at the top of it. He watched it float along, until it reshaped itself again, this time looking like a bird with its wings spread in full flight.

Then he heard it, the "caw, caw, caw!" of the albino crow. It hopped across the sand towards him, screaming urgently again, "caw, caw, caw!" It flapped, hopping at him, and then flew towards the trees. Slowly, he got up to follow. Too slowly, apparently, as it began to dive at him, until he began to run, driven towards the trees at full speed.

Crashing into a low hanging branch, he lay stunned on the ground for a moment, several feet into the woods. Then he heard voices, and rolled over.

The voices were coming from his camp. Several elves were arguing, including Sunoree. Pingowingo fought the urge to rush to her aid. They were all far more powerful than he, he sensed it in the way that they moved, and stood, and the easy familiarity they seemed to have with the weapons they carried.

So he waited. After some time, the argument ceased, and they all sat down around the fire. They ate, and then the strangers pulled out small stones. Rubbing them in their palms, they muttered activation incantations, and one by one, disappeared in puffs of magical green smoke.

Unexpectedly, Sunoree shifted into cat form, and seemed to vanish as magic shadows gathered about her. Pingowingo sat in silence. What should he do now? Go into the camp, or wait?

Moments passed, and the albino crow, nor Sunoree were anywhere to be seen. Finally, he made a decision. He was going to go to find another camp spot. While those elves had left, he had no knowledge of whether there were more nearby.

Perhaps it was time for him to go home and admit defeat, anyway. He'd been gone for weeks; he didn't even know how long anymore. It seemed obvious that he wasn't going to find a name. He would be Pingowingo the child forever.

Maybe that's what happened when you were scared all the time. Maybe that's what happened when you ran away, instead of fighting. Perhaps it was punishment for not being brighter, braver, better.

His shoulders drooped, his ears following their dejected line. He would figure out how to get home somehow, and then he would have to humiliate himself by honestly admitting that he didn't know his Name.

He wandered onwards, feeling very alone, very afraid, and deeply humiliated. Twilight began to settle on the land, and he decided to make camp. He'd found a perfect spot, a small clearing without any animal markings that he could tell.

He was so busy preparing his camp that, when she appeared in front of him quite suddenly, he bellowed in surprise and fell backwards, his hands windmilling. She started to giggle, and he glowered at her, his ears turning backwards in anger.

He almost forgot and yelled at her, he was so angry. Then he almost gave up and yelled at her because he felt his Naming was a big fat failure anyway.

But he lost the thought as she continued to giggle, and reached out to help him up. Taking her hand in his, he started to rise, only to slip on a patch of moss. He fell backwards again, but soon forgot the pain of landing so roughly on his backside not once, but twice. She fell on top of him, sprawling across his body and barely missing smacking him on the nose.

They stared at each other for a moment, each captivated by the other. They lay that way for a moment as Pingowingo held his breath. He almost felt as if even breathing would break the spell that seemed to have fallen over them, and she would dart away like a sparrow.

The moment was broken then, though, when the air was split by a loud, raucous, "caw, caw, caw!"

Scrambling up, they both stared at the bird. It looked at them inquisitively, as if expecting something. They looked at each other and shrugged. She pointed at the bird then, "Sec Cree," she told Pingowingo. He understood it then, "White Crow." She pointed at him, "White Crow," and laughed.

He grinned, and waved hello to the bird. It hopped from one foot to the other, then jumped down a branch closer. "Caw, caw, caw!" it squawked.

Pingowingo hopped from one foot to the other, "caw, caw, caw!" he imitated. Soon, he and Sunoree were laughing so hard they collapsed on the ground. With a last admonishment, the albino flapped away into the darkness.

When they recovered, the pair prepared their new camp. Pingowingo couldn't help but notice that Sunoree seemed subdued, despite the fact that she kept up a continuous chatter as she usually did.

After the camp was set, he laid down on his bedroll. In the night, while he slept, Sunoree altered into her cat form, and crawled into his arms. When they tightened around her, her feline face curved into a definite smile. Then she laid her head down on his arm and went to sleep.

**8.**

The Present

Whitecrow stepped down from the kodo, feeling a strange sense of urgent pressure, coupled with an uncanny desire to put off the impending disappointment. He was going to get there, and wait for another three days, for nothing.

It was the same every year. But every year, he did it again anyway. It was simply the way of things. He went, she didn't come, he left.

Stretching, he stared up at the sky, as if he could find solace, or maybe hope, there. The sky was blue, clear, and not surprisingly—silent. He patted the kodo, and started leading it along the road. He wanted a break from riding.

Or he wanted to delay, perhaps. He wasn't sure which, but he wasn't ready or able to face what was to come.

He looked up in surprise, then, when hoof beats sounded behind him. "Malovici!" he greeted the undead man who rode up to stop beside him. "What're you doing here?"

"I'm going with you," Malovici told him.

Stopping, Whitecrow's arms crossed, and he glared at his friend. "I do this alone," he told the undead rogue. "I've always done it alone, and this time will be no different."

"You're wrong," the Forsaken told him sternly, "I'm going with you. You just as well accept it, or I'll just sneak along behind you."

"I be comin', too," a voice came from behind Whitecrow.

"What makes you two think that I'm going to allow you to come with me?" Whitecrow asked, belligerence visible in the backwards set of his ears and the way he stood slightly forward, arms crossed.

"Is da bloody bird," Nantu said. "Bitch followed me ev'rywhere, til I wents and got Malo and tole him ta come wit me. We's going wit ya, an' you ain't stoppin' us."

Up the path came yet another, he being dive-bombed by said bird. The three standing in the road waiting watched with open-mouthed amazement as Ferruk rode towards them, cursing and swearing and batting at the white crow, with its beady red eyes.

"What the fuck is going on?" Ferruk snarled when he arrived. His normally tidy hair was in utter disarray, his clothes even torn in some spots. "Bloody fucking bird wouldn't leave me alo—"

He was interrupted by a rising cacophony from a low-lying bit of scrub beside the road. There sat three albino crows, all looking quite proud of themselves, but each seeming to try to outdo the others in shouting at the harried group.

"Well, I'll be—" Malovici started to say.

"What the hell?" Ferruk snapped.

"Da spirits is wantin' us ta come wit' ya, W.C.," Nantu said, "An' even you cain't tell dem no."

Whitecrow mounted his kodo. "I suppose you're right," he said. Then, in a quietly pensive tone of voice, "I thought there was only one of them."

"Mayhap there was, once," Nantu told him.

The group turned towards Ashenvale, Whitecrow somehow deeply bolstered by the presence of his friends. Come what may, he had friends nearby.

"How'd you get Nerissa to stay behind?" Malovici asked Ferruk.

"Didn't have to," he responded, "bird wouldn't let her go. I'm surprised the world's not down to two, though, at the rate she carried on about it." None of the group laughed. It was probably altogether far too true for comfort.

But they all also knew that it was hard for her to stay behind, even if Shantille might need her nearby for the birthing. The decision of which need for her was greater had probably been a difficult one for her, solved only by the crow. No one doubted that otherwise, the world really would be down one albino crow.

**9.**

Back in the Past

Pingowingo woke to find an unexpected weight across his arm. Blinking, he looked down to find Sunoree's feline body snuggled up against him. Forgoing his usual stretch, he began to pet her. Her fur was luxurious and soft, thick but delicate.

He watched as his own black fingers curled into the darkness of her fur, and felt a strange sense of inevitability about it all. She was muscular, yet the fur that overlaid the muscles made her soft. Her fur was longer and thicker than his short fur, making her plush to the touch.

The bit of sun that touched her blue-black fur warmed it, and gleamed off of it. She was beautiful in this form, not only in her elven form. She was a delight to touch, to look at, and to be near.

He looked up and saw her eyes open, turned towards him. As their eyes met, she began to purr. Not the loud purr he was used to, but a soft, whispering purr. Deep, gentle, subtle, it thrummed through him, igniting his senses.

He reached up to her head, cupping its slightness in his hand, curling his fingers around her ears, to rub there. Her purring intensified, her eyes dropping to near-closed. The golden glow poured out of the slits of her eyes as he rubbed her ears, she feeling so small, delicate, and soft to him.

His hand ran down her sleek body, rubbing gently across her ribs, and she rolled over, purr now intensifying again, up to the familiar, loud purr he'd come to know so well. He rubbed her belly, and looked up to see her gazing at him with supernatural intelligence.

Her paws fell backwards, and she arched over his arm, kneading the air in an unconscious gesture of inexpressible pleasure. He rubbed across her belly fur, so soft and silken, even more so than the rest. He was amazed at her beauty and her softness as the song of her purr filled the air around them.

Then, she gazed at him again, and he found himself suddenly staring into a lilac face. A smiling, beautiful, contented lilac face wreathed in blue hair so pale it was nearly white. His hand continued to caress her belly, now soft skin instead of fur.

Her eyes half closed again, languid with pleasure. Her hand ran up his arm, her touch light and soft. He didn't even notice that her first touch was against the growth pattern of his hair. But then as she stroked downwards again, he felt it like a sensual and sweet glow that spread out across his body from the point of contact.

Then she reached up and began to run her hand down his face, along his heavy, massive jaw, and up to the sensitive, soft skin of his nose. He held back a gasp, running his own hand across her belly and down the side of her hip, to pull her more snuggly against him.

She smiled, and then kissed him, so lightly, on the same spot her fingers had touched a moment ago. The feel of her lips on his nose was exquisite, nearly as sensual as if she had kissed him far lower.

A groan rumbled up from him, startling him with the intensity of his attraction for her. He drew back, fighting with himself for control. He couldn't let go of the sense that this was wrong somehow. That she didn't—couldn't—really know what she was doing, that she really didn't understand that he and she weren't physically compatible.

He had to control himself, or he would tear her apart inside. He couldn't take what she surely didn't mean to offer, even as she gave every appearance of offering it.

He pushed her away and surged to his feet. He shook his head mutely, and stumbled into the forest, forgetting for the moment to be embarrassed by his penis being in full rut.

"White Crow," she called to him. "Tiss an dunnik." 'Please don't go.' He stopped, his heart aching at the call. His shoulders, his ears, his spirits drooped. He would hurt her if he left, he would hurt her if he stayed.

Which pain would be worse? Which pain would likely be permanent? He knew, and so he walked away.

**10.**

He didn't get far, though. The albino was there again. It screamed at him, and he stopped. He scowled, hands on his hips. It dove at him; he chose to ignore it. He walked further into the woods, just wanting to be alone.

It tried to drive him back. He slapped at it, now furiously angry. _Interfering little bastard_, he thought. It dove again, he swiped again, managing to bump into its leg well enough that it lost its flight equilibrium, and smacked into a tree.

When its limp little body hit the ground, he gasped in horror. What had he done? He rolled it over carefully, and ran back into the camp. She was sitting on her own bedroll now, her eyes suspiciously bright.

He looked away, showing her the albino, cradled in his arms. She gasped, and pushed him into a sitting position on the ground, rearranging Tauren and bird until she could look the creature over.

She tsk, tsked at them both as she worked, soon shaking her head as if to say, 'I can find nothing wrong.' She patted it on the back, and they both sat down to wait. Pingowingo felt the flutter of its heart against his arm, so he knew it yet lived.

His eyes met hers, and his ears drooped. He looked away, ashamed and regretful. He'd hurt her, he'd hurt his spirit animal… what kind of man was he? No wonder he would get no name.

Misery settled into him again, and he sighed. Suddenly, the albino began to flap in his arms, and he released it. It jumped down and turned to stare at him. Then, with a single "caw," it pecked him straight on the nose, and flapped away.

"ARG!" Pingowingo bellowed, grabbing his agonized nose. All he could think was how much that had bloody well hurt. Pain caused his vision to shimmer like the Barrens on a summer day, tears wavering on the edges of it like roaring seas.

Sunoree patted him gently, softly. Finally, he allowed her to peel his hand away from its protective position over his nose, and she began to gently work some sort of cream into the skin. The pain began to rapidly recede then, and Pingowingo found he could breathe again without gasping.

He looked up to find Sunoree's eyes filled with compassion and tenderness. He blinked and looked away immediately. How could she be so sweet after he'd just hurt her? Tears tried to push through again, as he felt despair surround him.

He couldn't do anything right. He wasn't going to be a bull, because he couldn't control himself. He shouldn't be here. He should be at home. He was never going to be a real warrior; he would be inexperienced and stupid forever.

A weight landed on his leg, and he looked down to find her once more in cat form. Her purr filled the air, and this time, he forgot for a moment that she wasn't what she seemed to be in that instant.

He buried his face in her fur and cried. He pulled her close, hoping that he didn't hurt her, and he let the sorrow and hurt he felt flow out in tears. He even cried for the guilt and shame he felt because he was crying.

After a few minutes, the tears subsided, and he sat patting her mindlessly. When he stopped, she nudged his hand with her head. He chuckled and began to pet her again. Then, he pulled the brush he'd made out of his own pack, and began to brush her. Purring, she laid across his legs and rested her head on her front paws.

It was all he had to offer in the way of an apology. It seemed as if it were accepted.

**11.**

The next day, feeling as if he needed to do his part, Pingowingo began to hunt. He brought down several wolves, and one rather nastily belligerent bear who was nearly the death of him.

He ate well that evening, though, and shared with her. She chuckled, but ate what he offered, chattering away at him the whole time. He began to realize that her chatter wasn't directionless. She was telling him things, helping him learn. She was telling him what she was doing, that it was meat she was eating, that she was chewing her food, that she was lying on the ground rather than sitting.

It wasn't taking him long to gather up an understanding of her language, basic though it might be. He still couldn't understand much of it, but he was getting better and better. And of course, there was the added benefit of the fact that her voice was beautiful.

He sat down and watched the sun go down, petting her feline head absently as she watched from beside him. He was surprised at how much he enjoyed it.

Every evening, for the next week, they watched the sun go down together, after he had spent the day hunting. He didn't know what she did during the day, and couldn't ask. But she was always there in the evening, though not always when he arrived.

On the eighth day after he'd run off and knocked the albino down, Pingowingo got up and decided not to hunt that day. He started the day off with his usual grooming—he'd stopped letting her do it—and then made them some breakfast.

Sunoree had slept in this time, and it was the first time he'd really seen her asleep. She was even lovelier—if such a thing were possible—when she slept. Her lilac face looked divinely childlike, yet femininely mature at the same time.

The light blanket she was sleeping under rose and fell, curved over the mounds of her breasts in soft folds. Her slender form narrowed at the waist, only to curve outwards again at her lush hips.

She was, as his granfer used to say, 'a heifer built for breeding.' Her hips were full and her breasts high and full as well. Pingowingo's ears pointed downwards and he looked away, lest he be caught staring.

Deciding that she could take care of herself, he headed off to swim in the sea for a while. It wasn't the best bath ever, but it was better than nothing. Usually, she came with him, but today he found the solitude to be enjoyable.

It gave him time to think, and to pleasure himself amongst the waves, else she catch him with penis in hand. He'd been aching for days now, and it took mere moments for him to find his release, however unsatisfying it was, being so short, quick, and alone.

Then he played in the water, splashing and running and generally just enjoying it. When that was done, he went back to hunting.

That evening, though, he found himself returning with great eagerness to their camp. But as he neared it, he heard the sounds of a great struggle. Something was terribly wrong. He drew his sword, and rushed towards camp.

He drew to a sudden halt, though, as he neared the camp. It was swarming with humans. They were dirty and unkept, as if they had traveled far. They had the brutal, harsh look of rebels and outlaws.

And they had Sunoree. Oh, the might possibly not have known she wasn't what she seemed to be, but he wasn't sure. Either way, if they were outlaws, they could probably sell her and make thousands, if not tens of thousands, of gold off of her.

The problem was, there were many of them. He couldn't count them all; they kept milling around, drinking and laughing.

But then one of them poked at Sunoree with a stick, laughing as she howled with pain. She swiped at the sharp stick he had stabbed her with, and he stabbed her with it again, leaving behind a trickle of blood welling out of her fur.

Pingowingo lost control of his boiling rage. He roared into the camp, catching the men by surprise. He headed for her cage where she was now screaming with her own rage. It was as if seeing him had redoubled her efforts, and she managed to snag one man with a ferocious claw.

Dragging him to her, she closed her massive, powerful jaw over his head, and dropped his corpse, blood and gore dripping from her fangs. Screaming, the men nearest the cage surged backwards, onto Pingowingo's waiting sword.

For his part, he slashed at them, his old sword drawing blood immediately on his first foe. He opened the man's belly and ignored it as his viscera poured out and onto the ground. The dirty human stood holding part of his intestines, looking around him in mute appeal.

Even as he toppled forward, Pingowingo's sword drank the next man's blood, ripping into his throat with surprising force, so much so that it dragged parts of skin and bone with it.

Fury rose in Pingowingo as Sunoree's enraged howls reached him. He pushed harder to reach her, taking a bone-jarring blow to the shoulder that nearly caused him to drop his weapon.

He was vulnerable in only his daily leathers. But it was part of the Naming, that one wear only daily clothes, not armor. So all that stood between Sunoree's freedom—her very life—and these men, was Pingowingo and Pingowingo's sword.

He feared it wouldn't be enough. But if he could free her, he thought, perhaps she could save herself.

He stumbled as he realized that he was, in effect, giving up his life for hers. Then he surged against the two men who were fighting to keep him from his goal. He got it all in that moment. He realized everything that had brought him here.

He was here for her. He wasn't here to find his Name. He wasn't going to go on to save the world as every young Tauren dreamed of doing. He was going to save her. That was it, that was all.

It was more than enough.

He slashed back as one of the humans opened his ribs with a well-placed slash of his axe. His sword bit into the man, slicing his face open from chin to forehead. Pingowingo ignored him, pushing past the falling man before he even reached the ground.

The humans weren't very strong, weren't very organized, and weren't very intelligent. But there were a lot of them, and Pingowingo's wounds were mounting up. A slight trepidation began to rise in him. Would he make it to the cage in time?

He would, he determined, or he would die trying.

He did make it. Staggering the last few steps, he slashed at the cage, once, twice, and again. Finally, Sunoree threw her bulk against the door. The rope strained… held. She did it again as Pingowingo clashed against two humans.

The rope strained… held… SNAPPED!

With a mighty roar, she was free. She joined the melee like a shadow dervish, spinning and roaring and killing. Humans screamed and ran before her, and she killed any who weren't fast enough—which were many.

Within moments, a stunned hush fell over the clearing where they'd had their camp. Sunoree turned towards Pingowingo. He was alive, but near collapse. He knelt on the ground, leaning forward on one arm while he slowly tried to bandage his gaping ribs with the other.

When Sunoree reached Pingowingo, she immediately resumed her elven form. She couldn't use her own bandages, nor magic, to aid him, but she did try to help him with his own bandages.

Finally, he was done. But he was a mess. Blood and gore coated him. His fur, having nearly grown back from the early part of his Naming, now looked dull and flat. One ear was stuck to a horn, both caked with now-dried blood. Pingowingo was unsure whether the ear was wounded or not, but it wouldn't pull free.

He didn't care. He didn't care that he was wounded, he didn't care that he was dirty, he didn't care that he was sore. What he did care about was that she was free, and it was he who had saved her.

Slowly, he made his way to the sea, wincing with agony as the salt water seeped into still open wounds. When he was clean, he slowly left it again. They walked back up the beach as the sun set, and soon Sunoree had a fire roaring for them.

Heavily, Pingowingo sat down, and he bandaged what he could again with his magic-laced bandages. Sunoree began to groom him when he was done, and this time, he didn't help her. He was far too tired and sore.

When she was done, he laid down, and soon, he was fast asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**12.**

He was dreaming. Her warm body was lying against his in the darkness. A gleaming path of light danced on the waters of the sea, shimmering as if dancing. She was in feline form, snuggled against his side, and he was petting her slowly, rhythmically.

He sighed and pulled her closer, his hand running through her soft fur. Then her fur became flesh, soft, yielding, and sweet-smelling. He ran his hand across her satiny skin, cupping her breast in his hand, nuzzling against her cheek.

Her gasp jerked him to wakefulness. Predictably, he found himself grasping a breast, with beautiful golden eyes staring into his. With a yelp, he flopped around slightly, trying to get out of the bedroll.

Finally managing to detangle himself, he found himself on one knee in front of her, his tail clasped tightly against his body defensively. His ears were turned downwards, and he covered his muzzle with his hand again.

Suddenly, though, something shifted in him. She had once again initiated this. If there were blame to be given her, it wasn't his. As she stepped towards him, her hand raised towards him in entreaty, he stood.

He'd only understood part of it the day before. Now he realized the fullness of it all. It took a fool to kill himself for no good reason. It took a bull to offer up his life for another. To die for a reason, to die for a worthy cause was the right, the realm, of the Bull.

He was a youngling no longer. He knew it then. He towered over Sunoree, and felt the intrinsic change as it surged up in him. He looked at her, unaware that in that moment he looked intense and powerful.

With a jerk, he snapped the leathers that held the fetishes in his braids. Throwing them aside, he threw his head upwards, and the full, deep, resonant bellow of a mighty Tauren Bull thundered across the beach as he clasped his fists and told the world that he had arrived.

He stepped towards her, and to her credit, she managed not to step backwards, but she looked less sure, less certain. He raised his fist, and thumped his chest with it, once. "Whitecrow," he said. "SecCree."

Then he grasped her, not ungently, and pulled her towards him. "I take now and for the rest of my life, the Name Whitecrow." He said it to her as if she would understand, and he didn't care that she didn't. In her language, to the best of his ability, though, he repeated himself. "I Whitecrow name now."

She looked quizzical, then nodded. He knew she didn't understand, so he pointed at the discarded fetishes, "Name find. Whitecrow now." She nodded again, but he was done explaining for the moment.

He was discovering himself as a bull, but he was also realizing that she had made the offer, and he didn't have to say 'no.' He knew himself, he would never hurt her. He could control himself. He'd already proven it, just hadn't understood what he'd proven to himself.

He pulled her closer, running his hand up her arm. Then he ran it across her back, slowly, feeling every inch of curve, every bit of satiny, silken skin. Soft as gossamer, her hair brushed against him, and he grabbed a handful of it, bringing it up to his nose.

He looked into her eyes as he sniffed it, then he dropped it, running his hand further up her back. She looked into his eyes, her hands traveling their own slow way up his chest. She was no longer offering herself with the same abandon as she had before, as if recognizing on some primal level that it was no longer her offering, but him taking.

He reached her neck, and grasped her hair, pulling her head back. Then, breaking eye contact with her, he dropped his muzzle to her neck. There, he began a slow, light nibble, nipping at her neck and shoulder, slowly up towards her face.

She gasped as he went, soft sounds of feminine desire and excitement. Her arm wrapped around his neck, and she clung to him as if she would fall. He groaned with his own desire as he pulled her closer and felt her against his rutting penis.

Her hands curled into his mane, pulling at him as she strained on her tiptoes. He pulled back to look at her again, and she arched against his body, pressing his penis between them. He held back the urge to grind against her, until she began to kiss the soft flesh of his nose.

It was intensely erotic, so strongly arousing that his breathing became ragged as he looked down at her beautiful body, pressed against him eagerly. He didn't know how he was going to accomplish it, but he was going to have her this night.

He snaked his tongue out, just the very tip, and slipped it across her lips. They were soft, and as sweet as the berries they looked like. He pulled back, and looked down at her. She looked tousled and dreamy, as if she, too, had visited the shores of sexual desire in her sleep.

But she was very much awake, just as he was. Her pale hair floated in the breeze, strands of it flowing about her purple face. Her golden eyes stared into his, a smile shimmering at the corners of her lips. He leaned his face against her cheek, exploring her again with his hands.

Her endless chatter had magically ceased, she didn't tell him what she was doing, or what he was doing. But then again, she didn't need to. Her body spoke volumes on its own, and so did the soft moans and little cries she gave as he explored her full, pliant, heavy breast with his hand. Frustrated by the angle at which he was trying to feel her, he turned her around. It was a swift motion, bringing her around so that he could feel her freely.

Now, he could not only grasp her breasts, but he could watch as he slipped the light tunic she'd worn to bed off over her head. Now they were bare, bouncing slightly as the cloth caught them on the way past.

Sucking in a sharp breath, he took one in each hand, the dark purple areola deepened by the darkness cocooning them. Softly, almost reverently, he tweaked one nipple, watching with a fair degree of smugness as it instantly tightened into a hard little bud.

Kneading her breast, he began to thrust his erection up and down her back, thrilling at the feel of her skin against his. As he rolled her nipples between his fingers, she cried out again, a soft exclamation, 'oh!'

Then he left one breast to slip his right hand down between her legs. Sliding into her lightweight breeches, he found her wet and so very hot. Heat radiated from her before he'd even reached the sweet spot there.

He grinned, and lipped at her shoulder and neck as he slipped one finger inside of her. Sliding back out, he began a rhythm that would tease her, sliding inside, then out and across her clitoris, then back in again.

Frustrated, he wrenched the tie off of her breeches and let them fall. He ignored her gasp as he found the sweetness of her wet, slippery labia again. He watched his hand, loving the darkness of black against velvety purple skin. In and out he slid his hand, rubbing up and down her back in time with his fingers. With each slow thrust, she cried out, soft sounds of pleasure that made him pull his head back and grind his teeth.

He wanted to be inside her. But he did know enough to know that she should find her pleasure first, in case he lost his ability to control himself. It was, he understood, common for the first time, for a bull to go over the edge too swiftly for his partner.

His own kind knew this, and would be patient with him, but he knew not what the experiences of elves were. But either way, it would have been the same for him. He would see to his lover's pleasure first.

But it was difficult, more difficult than he'd ever thought possible. Just watching her, hearing her, touching her—it was driving him close to desperation. He wanted to be inside her. To feel her around him, to be with her in the most intimate possible way.

He heard her cries beginning to change, and hoped he wasn't hurting her. He slowed down, and she moaned, 'no, no,' and a word he didn't understand. Then she grabbed his arm, and began to rock her hips against it. He grinned, and understood. "Faster."

He could do not but oblige her, of course. He went faster, thrusting into her and out of her as she nestled between his legs. His hand left her breast and held her against him as her legs weakened.

Then his finger felt gripped from inside her. She cried out, gasping and sobbing slightly as her body convulsed. He groaned as the movements of her body increased the pressure, and the pleasure, on his penis.

When she was done, he picked her up and carried her to a tree nearby. He put her hands on it, then pulled her hips backwards. She looked over her shoulder at him and grinned. His ears flickered towards her as he grinned, then he slid a finger inside her again, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

Slowly, he inserted two, but found it tight going. He groaned, this was never going to work. He was larger than two of his own fingers, easily, and she was smaller.

Then, to his surprise, she turned and pushed down on his shoulders, until he was kneeling. Then she knelt in front of him. She said something to him, and reached between her legs, taking his rutting penis into her hand. She stroked it, sliding a hand up and down, before guiding it towards her.

He shook his head, "No. We can't." She ignored him, and continued to guide him. He felt himself at the entrance to her vaginal canal, and fought to control the primal urge that welled up in him.

He couldn't. He tried, but he couldn't. He leaned forward over her, and grasped her shoulder between his teeth. In the haze of desire, he heard her cry out as he began to shove into her, but he was too far gone.

He had to be inside her. He had to feel her, and he was rapidly losing control over his rampant desires. He realized through the fog that he was biting too hard, and eased up. Then he let go entirely and grasped her hair in his teeth as he leaned against his hands.

He stopped, through sheer force of will, and held still. He couldn't bring himself to draw out of her yet, but he managed to stop himself from pushing inside her. Then, agonized by the ache in his loins, he began to withdraw, struggling against the overwhelming urge to shove back into her.

Then there was a shift. The hair fell from his mouth, and the almost painful tightness around his penis eased somewhat. Suddenly, the way ahead of him was clear. He thrust into her even as he dimly registered that he was now holding firmly onto the nape of her feline neck.

Then he was home. He was buried completely inside of her, and she began to purr. A groan escaped him as it vibrated against his engorged penis. He began to thrust, using his hold on the nape of her neck for leverage.

He could hear her panting and gasping beneath him, but he was lost to everything but his own driving need. It had never been like that for him before. He'd touched himself many times, and never had he felt as driven or filled with lust as he did as he drove himself into her again and again.

He didn't hear his own grunts, or the sound of his body slapping against hers. He felt only the soft fur against his nose, and the sleekly wet passage that encased his penis. He dimly saw her black fur, dimly understood that she had changed forms, but all else was lost to him.

He thrust into her again, slowly this time. He wanted to feel the exquisite pleasure of her around him. He wanted to prolong the pleasure. He wanted to feel this way forever.

His body wouldn't wait, though. The business of the penis is to procreate, and it knew its job well, despite having never done it. It drove him onwards, until his hips were plunging with complete abandon, into her again and again and again.

When he finally released inside her, it was to the knowledge that she was experiencing it with him. He felt the tightening of her passage, distantly heard her cry out with a mewling howl.

And he felt the nearly torturous pleasure as he poured his sperm into her with pulsing squirts. It was the most intense pleasure of his life, and it went on for several seconds. By the time he was done, he had pushed enough cum into her that when he thrust into her one more time, it oozed out around him, and he felt the combination of his and her cum trickle down one side of his scrotum.

He released her neck, and licked the spot he'd held onto so tightly in apology. He wrapped one arm around her, accepting her as she was. Cat or elf, he loved her, and he recognized it in that moment. If this was what it took for them to be together without pain for her, then so be it.

After a few moments, he felt himself slip out of her, and he released her and laid down on the ground. She joined him immediately, changing into her elven form even as she tumbled down onto his chest.

He chuckled at her, and pulled her tenderly against him. He kissed her shoulder, apologizing without words for losing control and biting her. She smiled at him and kissed his nose.

She chatted away at him for a few moments, and then fell silent. It took him a bit to realize that she was asleep. Gently, he rolled her onto her side and then rolled over and wrapped himself around her.

He didn't know what the next day would bring, but he felt a deep sense of rightness come over him. He was a full-fledged bull now, and she was his mate. He knew that it was uncommon for Tauren to mate for life, but it did happen. And he also knew on a deep level that he would never love another woman the way he loved this one. And he wouldn't be able to be with another woman so long as this one lived.

It would be better for his soul if he were to die, than if he were to take another woman to himself. It was why his Naming quest was so long. Because he had been meant to come here, to find her, to love her.

As he'd been told, when his Naming happened, it was unmistakable. She was his Naming, and for all the impossibility of it, she was his mate, his Inamorata.

He wouldn't tell her, he decided. Even if he'd known how to explain it in her language, he wouldn't tell her. She didn't need to know, nor did anyone else. It was his special knowledge, his secret truth.

He smiled at her, and kissed her on the head as she slept. Soon, he had joined her, himself.

**13.**

The next morning, to the sounds of birdsong and a steady wind, the newly Named Whitecrow took his armor out of his pack. Piece by piece, he cleaned it, enjoying the weight of it in his hands.

When every single piece had been oiled and polished, old and rather beaten though it was, he strapped it on. As he donned each piece, he felt himself gaining confidence. There was something about being encased in metal that gave a bull a sense of power, he thought to himself.

He lifted his arm, feeling the familiar weight of his shield again, and hoisted the worn sword. Thus fortified, he went hunting again. The sound of his own passing satisfied him on some deep level, because it was a sound he'd grown so accustomed to, and missed terribly while on his Naming quest.

The brilliance of the day was his companion as he walked along. Soon, he found himself in a familiar area. He was surprised to find that he'd come full circle and returned to the Horde outpost, situated on the beach.

Heaving a sigh, he gave up his silence and walked into the outpost. Soon, he knew where he was, and the route home. He bought what supplies he could from what was available there, and regretted that there was nowhere from which he could send a message to his mother.

Shrugging philosophically, he agreed to do some tasks to help the locals, as they were right up his alley. And of course, he didn't even try to deny to himself that he wanted to say nearby here for as long as he could—to stay near Sunoree for as long as he could.

Leaving, he returned to their camp, and re-read the notes he'd taken on his local duties. He felt strange, though. He'd been gone from society for so long that nothing seemed familiar to him anymore.

He laid the parchment he'd made notes on down. As it had all day long, his mind strayed back to the night before. He couldn't believe all he'd experienced, all he'd done, in only one night.

It was as his mentor had told him. Everything was the same, but nothing would ever be the same again, despite the fact that it hadn't changed a bit. He knew that soon, he would have to present himself to his leaders, and inform them of his new status. He'd been a soldier, a warrior, for quite some time already, but now he was guaranteed a position in the Horde as long as he passed the final tests.

He was confident that he would. It was simple enough, some fighting, and off he would go, sent into battle on behalf of the Horde.

His ears turned backwards and flickered, and tension ran through his body. He was Sunoree's enemy. She was his. It would soon be his sworn duty to kill any of her kind that he encountered, if they had allied themselves with the races who called themselves The Alliance.

He groaned and tightened his fist around the pommel of his sword. As an adult, he understood that life simply wasn't fair. Being not long into adulthood, though, he was still young enough to feel resentment over it.

It wasn't fair that the woman he loved was his sworn enemy, under any technical definition. Obviously, she would—and could—never be his enemy in reality. But there was little room in life for the niceties of inter-racial love in the middle of war.

Whitecrow stood and walked out onto the beach. He wanted to take his anger out on someone, or something. Jerking the shield off of his back and pulling the sword out of its scabbard, he stalked angrily along the shoreline.

Ah, just what he was looking for. The Naga Myrmidon saw him at the same moment that Whitecrow saw him, and they met in a feverish clash of weapons. Sparks danced between them as Whitecrow's sword slashed down the side of the Myrmidon's trident and scraped off of the scales of its hand.

Whitecrow swung again, meeting the Myrmidon's jabbing trident with his shield. The sword swung below the Myrmidon's arm and bit into his side, a loud "scree!" echoing off the sword as it bit into hard scales.

The creature snarled, stabbing at him again, catching Whitecrow with a glancing blow to the head that made him stagger. Whitecrow retaliated with a wrench of his sword that took the Myrmidon's carapace off from shoulder to elbow. It screamed in pain at the loss of fins, and tried to retaliate with a vicious slash of its tail.

Whitecrow missed, swung again, and rather clumsily severed enough of the Myrmidon's neck to drop it to the ground, gurgling before it died.

Stained with blood, Whitecrow stood on the beach. The gulls ignored and continued to call out to each other. Blood slowly ran across the sands towards the water, but he ignored it.

He shook his great head, his mane sweeping across his shoulders from under his helm. It felt good to take down an enemy. It felt good to be alive. And today, he really realized it. He realized with a depth that he'd never had before, just how great it felt to survive

For months, he'd been running, fighting, and living with the constant threat of death. Yet here he was, fully alive.

It seemed almost too much to contemplate, the certainty he'd had just a few days ago that not only would he never get his name, but that he probably wouldn't survive the trip home.

And now… now he had a lover, he had work, and he would soon be initiated fully into the Horde as a soldier. In some ways, he was very proud, yet in other ways, the responsibility of his new position was sinking in for him.

But how was he to balance the responsibility he had to the Horde, with the love and responsibility he had for Sunoree? How was he to juggle the work he had to do, the lives he had to take, against the knowledge that his enemies were just people like him?

He walked back to camp, to find Sunoree already back. She looked up with a smile, and he realized that she looked shy and almost insecure as she watched him walk into camp. He had no way of knowing that he'd changed dramatically, that he now seemed to exude power, control, and a strange sort of calm.

He walked up to her and reached out his hand. She took it, and he pulled her to a stand, drawing her against him and looking down at her. She smiled tremulously, and he nuzzled her cheek, then bit her gently on the neck. When she gasped, he grinned, his ears flickering forward towards her.

But when she reached towards his armor, clearly intending to undress him, he stopped her. Her combat ability, her magic—they were both far greater than his. In that manner, she was his better, by far.

Yet in this way, in the privacy between them, where she could not bring herself to do him harm, he was the one with the inherent power. When he stopped her, despite her superior powers, she obeyed.

Stepping back, he flexed his shoulders, forward and down, then again. Reaching out, he pulled her leather tunic over her head. Then her leather breeches. The rest of her clothes followed, until she stood naked before him.

He looked at her, naked and slender in the brilliant light of the sun. A powerful, almost visceral thrill ran through him, and it seemed as if every part of him roared, "Mine!" as he looked up and down her body.

She was even more beautiful in the full light of day, were such a thing possible. She reached up to cover herself, as if she could no longer stand the weight of his stare. Grasping her gently by the chin, he turned her face up to his, and shook his head. Her hand fell, and she stared at him. Only the flicker of his ears betrayed his approval, but she noticed. A blush crept up her cheeks, a brilliant flare of color under her lilac skin.

"Lovely," he said in her language. Then he ran a finger down her neck, to her chest, until he reached a breast. There, he circled her brightly purple areola, bringing it instantly to a state of hardened response.

He stepped away again, and took his armor off. He held her eyes as he did so, not looking away from her. Piece by piece, the armor he'd so carefully cleaned earlier in the day landed in the grass.

This time, he felt no shame whatsoever at being in full rut as he stepped back up to her.

He had much to learn about lovemaking. He had much to learn about women. And he knew exactly who was going to teach him, and how…

**14.**

She watched him as he stood in front of her, and suddenly he felt rather unnerved by her perusal. Reaching out, he ran his fingers down her face, pressing ever so slightly against her eyelids. "Stay," he told her in her language, hoping she would keep them closed as he desired.

Then he looked at her. The long, slender legs. The round, high breasts. Slender, graceful arms. He said a word to her that he thought meant 'beautiful,' but which translated more closely to 'majestic.' He watched in fascination as her lips parted in a gasp, and a rosy hue overtook her cheekbones.

Reaching out, he took one breast into his hand. It was soft, with skin that neared the perfection of a starry night in the Savannahs of the Barrens. He smiled as he rolled the tensing nipple between his fingers, and then ran his hand lightly down her belly.

Her responses gratified him, her soft moans floating on the bright morning air, wisps of dandelion seeds that danced away on the wind. He followed the curve of one purple hip, coming close to her labia, but not quite touching it.

He walked around her then, letting his hand run around her hip to her buttocks. There, he stopped and gripped both, one in each hand. He stepped closer to her, letting his rutting penis slide up her back slightly, nudging along the cleft between her supple cheeks.

She swayed, and he leaned forward to taste along the side of her neck, pulling her long, heavy hair aside as he did so. He lipped at her, allowing his teeth to graze lightly, reminding her of his possessive grasp the night before. She shuddered, swaying again.

Whitecrow ignored the singing of the birds around them, but he couldn't help but feel the warmth of the sun. When he touched her, her skin tightened behind his wandering fingers, and he considered for a moment that she might be cold. But he was too far gone in his lust to change the course of his actions, so he drew her close against him, hoping that the sun and his warmed fur would be enough to keep her naked to his touch, and his eyes.

He stepped up until once more he was standing behind her. He enjoyed this particular pose, because it allowed him easy access to her body with his hands, and because he could look down and see almost all of her.

Laying his head against the side of hers, he grasped both breasts, checking to be sure her eyes were still closed. He wanted her to feel him, to experience him without sight. But of course, he wanted to see everything there was to see, and more.

He nudged his leg between hers, until her legs spread. He began to let his hand slide down towards the juncture of her thighs, until he saw a clear bead of moisture run down her left leg.

Fascinated, he followed it with his eyes. He knew the mechanics of sex, all young Tauren were taught it. But it was his first time, and he hadn't really realized just how erotic it would be to recognize the concrete proof of her arousal. It was a strange, out of control feeling that both irritated him, and drove him towards madness.

He struggled with himself for a moment. The powerful, overwhelming feelings of sexual desire and possessiveness fought within him. He wanted to take. He was a bull, and like all of his kind, he was endowed with an abundance of strength and an iron will.

But in times of extreme stress or extreme emotion of any kind, bulls were unpredictable. Their iron will could become lost in the sea of all-encompassing emotion.

Whitecrow had just reached this place. He was young, and unpracticed in self-control. He had never before faced this tidal wave of emotion, outside of the terrible fear he'd gone through during his Naming Quest.

The sight of that single trickle of wetness eviscerated his will, his very connection to reality. With a primal roar, he shoved her forwards and sought what he most wanted. A single shriek exploded from her, registering in some distant part of his mind.

But it was enough. He stilled, jerked away from her. In that instant, the iron control he would have over himself for the rest of his life was born. He pulled away, and rolled her over. Knowing no other way, he began to lick the site of the injury.

She mumbled softly, and a wave of green energy slipped over her. In an instant, she was Healed from her wound, but he knew that tenderness and pain would remain—not everything could be Healed.

Thus, he apologized to her with soft words, and nibbles and licks. She tasted slightly sweet, slightly salty. Soon, he realized that his apology was having a very different effect on her than he'd intended.

She was writhing and moaning as his tongue slipped into the folds of her labia. He watched her as he drank in the musky, deep scent of her, and tasted the liquids that ran from her.

Her face was languid, her eyes drooping into a sensual appreciation of his touch. He grunted in satisfaction as she arched and cried out when he brushed her clitoris with his tongue.

Then he slipped it inside her, seeking—he knew not what. Her fists pulled up chunks of grass as she squirmed and bucked against his muzzle. His horns held her legs down as she bucked up against them, so he pulled back, grinning at her little mewl of disappointment.

Then he positioned her legs over his horns, and went back to tasting, exploring, and smelling her. She tasted like raw sex to him. By this point, he'd given up on even the thought of apology, and instead he took perverse delight in bringing her near orgasm, only to stop and grin up at her as she cried out in frustration.

He'd found an extraordinary pleasure in playing with her. He relished his power over her, relished her reactions, relished and delighted in taking her close, hovering her on the edge. It was something he'd never experience before, this sense of total power over another person's body.

He teased her again, slipping his large tongue inside her, exploring the velvet-soft recesses of her vaginal canal. He found the spot on top where she was ridged, and almost laughed out loud when she gasped and tried to pull him closer with her legs, hooked over his horns as they were.

But his own body was making demands—demands he could no longer refuse to meet. He lifted her legs carefully over the rack of his horns, before flipping her over onto all fours. This time, he didn't even touch her until she altered form.

Then, though, he pressed his way inside her, finding that she was as slickly wet as she had been before altering her form. Leaning forward, he felt her tail tapping against him as he began to slide in and out of her.

She turned her head; eyes no longer closed, and licked his cheek, a long, slow lick. He groaned and surged into her again as her purr erupted into the warming air. He no longer worried she might be cold, and straightened back up—though remaining kneeling behind her.

He suffered not even a qualm as he grasped her hips and began to slide into and out of her. At first, he managed to keep his strokes slow, long, and deep. But as his excitement mounted, he moved faster, until he neared his own release.

Then he stopped, frustrating himself as he had her. He played this game with himself often when he was alone, peaking and then cooling off. It prolonged the pleasure then, and did the same now.

He'd already been peaked for a long time now, though, and finally decided he was ready. He wasn't going to tease himself into losing control again. So he reached forward and found, without surprise, that even in feline form, she responded to his hand seeking into her folds.

Soft mewling sounds, oddly little different than those from when she was in elven form, escaped her with every long stroke of him inside her.

Finally, he felt her body clench, and she howled, a sound close to pain—but nearer to ecstasy. The tensing of her body was enough to throw him forward into his own release, and he nearly howled himself as it throbbed the length of his penis.

He poured himself into her, feeling her contracting around him. Because it had been withheld, his orgasm hit him hard, flaying through him on a rising tide. When it reached apogee, he gritted his teeth, feeling the essence of a bull still flowing through him for a moment longer.

When it was over, he slipped out of her, feeling the slight gush of fluids following him. She immediately morphed into her elven form, and he looked down. A pale white film sheeted down her leg, and she blushed as he caught her eye. He grinned. He felt rather smug about it, and he couldn't and wouldn't deny it.

Naked, he walked with her to the shore and into the water. He realized that he had no fear whatsoever while he was with her. They bathed, but he found to his surprise that sex with her hadn't quelled his appetite for her—it had increased it. Her luscious body bumping against his in the water caused him to want her again.

When he got out and pulled his clothes and armor back on, to her giggling resistance, he felt a keen disappointment. But he did have work to do, however he might want to spend the day with her instead.

Several hours later, he returned to camp, disappointed to find it quiet, with the fire out. She obviously hadn't been back for several hours, either. He shrugged philosophically and restarted the fire, working out some excess energy by cutting more wood.

He couldn't stay much longer. He knew it, but he continued to distract himself from that knowledge.

**15.**

For ten more days, they laughed, and played, and made love. Whitecrow made little progress on completing the tasks he'd been assigned, preferring instead to discover every tiny detail of Sunoree's beautiful body.

She had a small, brightly purple mole just above her left hip. She had a thin, pale scar that ran across her back from her right shoulder blade over and down across her left ribs, ending just below her breast. It wasn't long before he knew every imperfection on her body, and treasured each one more because it was part of what made her perfect to him.

The sultry, warm nights gave way to rain on the tenth day, and they sat in the darkness together, under the minimal cover of a small tent they'd made out of waterproofed hides. Whitecrow could now speak and understand her language fairly well, so they sat up that night and talked.

"Where do you go when you… are not here… in day time?" he asked her, having some challenge at formulating the question.

"I go to help my _walchik_, and keep him from becoming _ispisici_ of what I am doing," she told him. He blinked stupidly at her.

With some work, and a lot of laughing, she finally got him to understand that she was trying to keep her brother from becoming suspicious of what she was doing while away from him.

"Why would he be suspicious? You're an… you're no baby, right?"

"No, I'm not a child, I'm an adult," she agreed, "but he still thinks it's his job to protect me, and to protect the family's honor."

"Do you have a habit of … breaking… the family's honor?" Whitecrow asked, for lack of a better way to ask the question.

"No, but I did once, in his opinion. I thought I did the right thing, he disagreed. He's the one that gave me the scar across my back. He whipped me and refused to allow it to be treated. Said I needed to be reminded all my life of the price of dishonoring the family."

Whitecrow felt a snarl rising in his throat, "Your people condone whippings for 'dishonoring' the family?" He suddenly felt that maybe killing some of her people wouldn't be so difficult, after all.

"No, no!" she told him, "It's not a common practice among our people. I think most would have interfered if they'd known he did it, but they didn't. I didn't tell, because to do so would have dishonored the family more than what I did."

Appalled, Whitecrow could only stare at her. "I think," he said slowly, afraid of offending her, "that your family has a [wrong, disfigured, improperly grown] view of honor."

She looked away, and he saw the hard set of her jaw. Reaching out, he gathered her against him, but she pulled away. Before he could reach out to her again, she shifted forms, and was gone.

He followed, but she had vanished, cloaked in magic shadows that hid her fully. He sighed, "I'm sorry, beloved," he said into the rain and the wind. Only they answered, with their own brand of silence.

He stood a moment longer, rain sluicing off of his naked body, before he walked down the beach and into the water. He swam in the rain and the dark for a bit, before returning to camp to dry off and slowly slide into bed.

There, he couldn't shake the anger he felt towards Sunoree's brother. Whipping a woman for 'dishonoring' the family? Whitecrow's people were deeply aware of honor, and it played a central role in their lives. But never, ever, to the extent that it would cause one to whip their family member. The worst possible punishment was exile—and that with full provisions to aid the tribal member in survival.

A slow burning rage worked its way through him. He knew that Sunoree was a powerful woman in her own right. Yet the very fact that it was her brother, someone she would love so much that she wouldn't want to lash out against, who had done that to her, infuriated him.

Finally, he plunged into a deep sleep; nightmares of seeing Sunoree whipped sliding through his sleep like a stone through once-peaceful water. He chased the man through the forest, only to finally catch up to him, and to find a sword running through his own chest. He woke with a jerk, alone in the small tent.

He stepped outside, looking around. Sunoree was nowhere to be seen. Feeling slightly dejected, he started a fire and sat down to wait. While he waited, he began to polish his armor.

The day was bright and clear, almost violently cheerful. Birds called to each other, singing sweet songs and flirting. The trees were happy green, glowing in the sunshine. The sun, for its part, was madly determined to pump out as much brilliance and joy as possible—causing Whitecrow no small amount of irritation.

Finally, after a long argument with himself, he began to do the tasks he'd been appointed to. Everything seemed to go wrong, and by the time he arrived back to the camp that evening, he was bitterly angry.

His mood was worsened further by the fact that the camp was empty, nothing disturbed from when he had left. If she'd been there, she'd left no evidence of it.

Swearing, Whitecrow took his customary swim to clean off, and finally fell asleep leaning back against a tree. When he woke, the sun was once more doing its damnedest to irritate him into irrationality. The birds were acting like nothing had changed, and the trees and the sky even looked just as happy and bright as usual.

Whitecrow thought maybe he hated them all that morning.

He spent another miserable day in the woods, slogging through knee-high grasses and fighting humans. There was, of course, some small comfort in fighting the humans, after all, it was likely some of this bunch that had gotten the jump on Sunoree earlier.

The camp was silent and deserted when he returned to it that evening, too.

The next day, Whitecrow returned to the Outpost and purchased more supplies. Unfortunately, there were no more tasks left there that he was capable of doing.

So he left, intending to wait for Sunoree for three more days, and then go home.

She was there when he got back. He stalked towards her, angry that she had left for so long without telling him why.

But when he reached her, she looked up at him, and what he saw in her face caused him to stop entirely. His anger dissolved, gone as if it had never been.

She was worried and afraid.

**16.**

"You have to leave, Whitecrow," she told him.

"No," he said. "Whatever the problem is, we'll face it together."

"We cannot," she answered, seeming to sink into the log she was sitting on. "You must go. When I went back to Therival, I was upset. He pressured and pressured me to find out what was wrong. I didn't tell him, but it was a difficult time. I had to avoid you, because he had someone following me. I fear what may happen if he finds us together. He will kill you, and it will be all my fault."

Whitecrow held her, pulling her against him and enfolding her tightly in his arms. "Everything's going to be okay, Sunoree," he told her.

"No, it's not. You must go. I shouldn't even have come to you this time. It was wrong of me. But I had to say good-bye. I couldn't leave you here to wonder what had happened, or if I'd just up and left. I needed you to know that I love you." Tears were running down her face freely, and Whitecrow groaned as the hurt of it tore through him. If he could, he would kill anyone who dared to make her cry.

"I won't leave," he told her.

"If you love me," she whispered, "you'll go, rather than break me by forcing me to watch my brother murder you."

His breath caught in his throat. A lowing moan escaped him, as pain welled up inside of him. "Sunoree," he said, "I cannot go on without you!"

"You must, Whitecrow, you must. I cannot bear to be the reason for your death. I would rather die a thousand deaths than that." Her glowing eyes were lit with a deep sadness that Whitecrow couldn't abide.

He ignored the tear that dropped from his own eye, "How can I leave you? How can I bear to be parted from you?" He was filled with the scent of her, the knowledge of her, the memories of her. He was terrified of the emptiness that lay before him, a life without her in it. "I can't," he groaned, his heart in the very words.

She took his face in her hands, and kissed his nose. "My love, you must. This cannot be. It will never be. We can never see each other again. If Therival finds us like this, he will kill you, and probably imprison me. I can't watch you die, Whitecrow, I can't!" The agony in her voice tore into his very soul.

"Please, Sunoree, there must be a way!" He was reduced to pleading now, a dim recognition that struck deeply at him. "We can run away. We'll go to Ratchet. To Stranglethorn Vale. We'll—"

She cut him off, "There's nowhere that he can't find us, Whitecrow. Nowhere that we'd be safe."

Then, she transformed once more into her cat form. "I must go before we are discovered," she said.

"Wait," Whitecrow cried desperately. He tried one last thing, "See that island? Every year, when the sun rises in the morning over its tallest point, I'll be here. I'll come to you then."

"Don't make such promises, Whitecrow. I cannot come. I can't risk it."

"I'll be here, Sunoree. Whether you are or not, I'll be here. I'll come until you change your mind and come. And then I'll come every year after that, too."

"Don't, Whitecrow. I can't bear it. I can't come." And just like that, she was gone.

Whitecrow's bellow was pure pain, sheer agony, unmitigated loss.

**17.**

It was three weeks before Whitecrow gave in and left the camp. He realized that she wasn't going to come back. It wasn't all a big mistake; there would be no reunion, no regrets over a grand misunderstanding.

She was gone. Really, and truly gone.

He walked to the Outpost and bought supplies. He couldn't fly out from there, as he had no knowledge of other placed to which he might fly, and the wyvern-master was singularly unhelpful. He had to guide the wyvern himself, he was told, and if he didn't know the way, the master wasn't giving him one.

Thus it was that he walked out of the Outpost on his way home.

As he drew near to the old campsite, his hooves seemed heavier and heavier. One more week, maybe? Perhaps if he just stayed a bit longer… but no. She was gone. He had to accept it.

Yet as he came closer, he could look down on it from a rise, and when it came into view, he found himself stumbling as he took in what was happening below.

She was there! But she wasn't alone. She stood arguing with three men. One of them, Whitecrow was certain, was her brother; the other two must be his goons. Hunching down, he watched their conversation. He was too far away to hear it, so all he could do was watch and be certain she was safe.

The argument grew more heated as he watched, both of them gesticulating, and one of the other men chiming in here and there. She turned on the other fellow after he said something, now yelling at him and gesturing in his direction.

Something she said to him infuriated the man that Whitecrow assumed was Therival, and as Whitecrow watched, Therival grabbed Sunoree's arm and turned her towards him. She talked back to him, and to Whitecrow's fury, Therival slapped her hard across the face.

A frenzied rage blossomed within Whitecrow, and without even realizing it; he was suddenly holding his sword and his shield. He lunged forward, only to sprawl, face-first, on the grass.

"Don't do it, man. You go runnin' down there, and you're gonna die." The cavernous, growling voice came from the single most disgusting face Whitecrow had ever seen.

Oh, he'd heard of the undead Forsaken, knew they were allies of the Tauren now that they were part of the Horde. But he'd never seen one. He'd never been to Thunder Bluff, or any major Horde city, for that matter.

Now, he tried to calm the rushing of his blood, the roaring thunder of his heart. "I have to help her!"

"You can't. Don't be stupid. If you go down there, you'll not only not help her, but you'll get yourself tortured and killed. Right in front of her. Is that really what you want?" the Forsaken man's face changed not a bit, yet Whitecrow somehow sensed that he felt sadness.

"You don't understand," Whitecrow said weakly.

"Ya, I do," the man told him. "I've not forgotten everything about being alive."

He helped Whitecrow to his feet. "I'm Malovici, by the way. I prefer that to, 'hey dead guy,' if you don't mind too much."

Whitecrow was in no mood for humor, though. "He whipped her before. I can't allow that to happen again."

Malovici studied him, "Listen, kid, if you go running down there and get yourself killed, you can never free her entirely from him. But if you walk away now, and come back when you're as powerful as he is—you might just stand a chance of freeing her from him forever. Which one do you think is a better choice?"

Whitecrow hated the man standing in front of him. Unbidden, without realizing it, his sword swung towards the dead man.

"Well, if that's the way you want it," Malovici told him. "You sure you want to do this?"

Whitecrow snarled, "You won't stand in my way."

"Alrighty, then, let's get it done and over with," Malovici said, his voice registering a sort of accepting resignation.

Whitecrow swung his sword, only to find it flying out of his hand, landing several feet away. Then he was lying on the ground again, the sky overhead dark and filled with clouds, where it had been bright and blue a moment before.

Sitting up, he groaned aloud and clutched his head. "Wha—?"

"Hey, look who's awake!" Malovici's harsh voice grated across Whitecrow's painful head like sandpaper on raw nerves.

"Why did you do that?" Whitecrow snarled at him.

Malovici shrugged. "Not sure, really. Not my problem if some nitwit kid wants to run around and get himself tortured and killed. You're welcome, anyway."

Whitecrow sat and stared hatefully at the man before him. "I'm not a kid, I'm a bull now," he said. "My Name is Whitecrow."

"So you finished a Naming Quest and now you think you're big shit, huh?" Malovici told him. "You still got a lot to learn, kid. Plus you gotta go present yourself to Thrall. You're not done til then."

Whitecrow stared at him, "What do you know about it?"

"A lot more than you, obviously," Malovici said. As his features rarely changed, Whitecrow wasn't sure if he was being smug or not.

"Whatever," Whitecrow said. "I suppose I could stop by Orgrimmar on my way home." He sighed, looking towards the camp, which confirmed his fear. Sunoree and the group she'd been arguing with were long since gone.

He got up and started walking again, nursing his aching head. Malovici fell in beside him, to his surprise. "I don't need your help," he snarled at the other man, resentful that he'd prevented him from trying to save Sunoree.

"I know," Malovici said, and then nothing more.

Whitecrow grunted and kept walking, ignoring the other man as the hours passed. They walked and walked, Whitecrow's head aching as much from his thoughts as from his injury.

At length, he said, "You were right."

No answer came from the Forsaken beside him, and he repeated it. Cold, unfeeling yellow orbs swung his way and stared into him. "So?"

Whitecrow's ears drooped even further. "So nothing. So you were right. I was wrong. You happy?"

A moment of silence stretched between them. "You think that should make me happy?"

"Shouldn't it?" Whitecrow asked, feeling contrary—and angry.

"I think you've got strange notions of what makes a man happy," Malovici said. "Then again, seems to me that the living have a mighty lot of strange notions."

"What, like being dead makes you so much better than me?" Now he was mad and hating the guy again.

"Is that what I said?" Malovici asked, his voice devoid of emotion, a dry desert wind that promises nothing but more heat and dryness.

"Same thing, ain't it?" Whitecrow replied.

"Is it?"

"Do you know you're immensely irritating?"

"I've heard it somewhere before."

"Why're you following me?"

"Is that what I'm doing?"

"Isn't it?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then what are you doing, if you're not following me?"

"I'd say I'm walking with you. Usually, one follows from behind, not beside."

"Oh, now that's real funny. You're real funny." Whitecrow's voice held only irony, not honesty.

"Why thank you, thank you very much."

"Shut up."

… Silence fell between them.

Whitecrow was the first to break it some time later, "So why are you walking beside me?"

"Nothing better to do right now."

Whitecrow stopped and stared at him, "That's it? That's all you've got to say?"

Unblinking, unholy yellow orbs looked back at him, penetrating and direct. "That's all."

Whitecrow went back to walking, and shook off the enigma beside him. He was soon lost in his memories, and in his concern for the future. He didn't speak of the fears and hopes running through his mind, but he still found that the presence of the odd Forsaken man beside him was comforting in its own way.

A few hours later, Malovici faded from view, without a word. Whitecrow stopped for a moment and looked around, then moved on. He tried to shake off the strange incident, falling back to thinking about Sunoree.

When he camped that evening, for some reason, he was completely unsurprised when Malovici showed up. He fell asleep to the sight of strange yellow pinpoints of light lurking in the forest.

The pair traveled on for days, until Whitecrow lost track. Eventually, he became so accustomed to the presence of Malovici that he barely took note of it. He came and went as he wished, and Whitecrow never asked what he was doing. It seemed to him like it was a pattern of the people in his life.

When at last he reached Orgrimmar, it was with Malovici still beside him. He stopped at the inn and had a bath, emerging to find Malovici waiting outside.

"Ready to go face the music?" Malovici asked him.

"Yeah," Whitecrow said. "Why do you care, anyway?" He was curious.

"I think you've got potential, kid. I like to see potential realized. It makes me feel alive." This time, Whitecrow was almost certain the man was joking. He stared at him for a long, drawn-out moment, then shrugged.

"Suit yourself," he said, and turned to go face Thrall.


	4. Chapter 4

**18.**

Whitecrow was impressive for a young bull, topping out at an inch over seven feet tall. When he stepped into Thrall's presence, though, he felt almost humbled. Thrall was massive, taller even than Whitecrow himself. Muscles corded along his crossed arms and over the green skin of his chest, showing through the mail he was wearing.

Whitecrow faced him with trepidation, unsure of the powerful, monstrous-looking man before him.

"I expected you some time ago." The rich, warm voice filled the building, and Whitecrow quailed at the words.

Head and ears drooping, Whitecrow told him, "My Naming took a great length of time, Sir."

"Indeed?" Thrall asked. "The last bull whose Naming took so long, that I know of, was Cairne Bloodhoof himself. Makes me curious about you, young man."

Whitecrow felt his ears bobbing slightly, both embarrassed and pleased to be compared to so exalted a personage within the Tauren community.

"I… ah…" Whitecrow trailed off, not sure what he was supposed to say to that.

A large hand clapped him on the shoulder. "Not to worry, lad. We'll see how this thing goes. Let's go get started."

"Get started, Sir?"

"Yes. You're to spar. If you survive three rounds against the man chosen to spar with you, you will become a full member of the Horde. You weren't told?" Thrall's eyebrow rose in surprise.

"I came straight here, Sir, instead of going home first," Whitecrow explained. He left off his anger at Malovici for not telling him that he'd have to spar with someone. He realized that he really would have liked to know.

"Well, I'm sure you'll do fine," Thrall told him. "You've that look about you."

Whitecrow blinked, but didn't ask what look that was. He was afraid of the answer.

Thrall's easy attitude towards him soon had Whitecrow reasonably comfortable in his presence. Malovici wandered along behind them, and it was only Thrall's preeminent position that kept Whitecrow from turning around and sarcastically telling the Forsaken man that he was definitely following him now.

They soon arrived at an open sort of arena. When they entered, Thrall stopped to speak to the Orcish Shaman standing at the entrance. Whitecrow could only hear snatches of the conversation:

"…are you sure he's the best candidate for one so young? … isn't going to be able to beat him… …need a different criterion for grading if we do… …cannot allow him to be set up in that manner…"

After some discussion, Thrall returned to them. "You'll be sparring with a man named Ferruk. He's the only one available for days, actually. Unfortunately, he's a bit more experienced than you are, so we've decided that you won't have to win against him in order to pass muster. All we're going to ask is that you hold up without yielding or dying for twenty minutes against him. I know it's not an entirely fair test, and I'm sorry about that. Your alternative is that you can remain here in town, and wait for someone else to become available."

Helplessly, Whitecrow looked from Thrall to Malovici. Thrall's face seemed to be friendly and concerned, despite its generally brutish appearance. Malovici shrugged at him impassively.

"I can't wait," Whitecrow said, somehow feeling as if it were imperative for him to get on with gaining Power as quickly as possible. He desperately had to return to Sunoree, this time with far more experience and Power.

Time was short, he felt. So he agreed to what he felt was a completely madcap scheme. Survive for twenty minutes against a far more powerful foe? Were they kidding?

Oh well, if he was going to throw his life away, it just as well be now, and for this, he thought. He'd almost done it earlier, and for nothing. So why not now?

"I'll do it," he told Thrall. With a fatalistic sense of threatening doom, "I have no real choice."

Thrall stood looking at him, his face etched with an even deeper sense of concern. "Are you sure about this, son?"

Swallowing hard, Whitecrow gripped his sword even more tightly. Mutely, he nodded, squaring his shoulders and drawing up to his full height.

Thrall clasped him on the shoulder again. "Right through there, then. And good luck."

Whitecrow stepped out into the arena, and there stood his adversary. Ferruk was a big green orc, with green eyes. He stood calmly, facing Whitecrow with an air of expectancy.

Whitecrow bowed to the other man. This most basic of courtesies had been drilled into him since before he could remember, and it didn't desert him now. He saw the surprise in the other man's eyes, before Ferruk bowed as well.

Then, the battle for Whitecrow's full and uncontested acceptance to the Horde began in earnest.

**19.**

They wasted only a moment on introductions, thus concluding the customary courtesies for sparring.

Once past that, the orc didn't waste any time dropping grotesque, misshapen little objects on the ground, where they lay radiating magic. With a shrug, Whitecrow trotted towards the shaman, slashing at each totem as he passed them. A flash of lightning tore across his skin, biting through fur and armor alike. He ignored it, staunchly pursuing his foe.

He didn't have far to go, as Ferruk stepped up to him, toe to toe. He didn't hit very hard, though the magic infusing his weapon bit painfully when he did land a hit. Whitecrow knew better than to underestimate him, though.

A moment later, as the shaman hit him with another searing, burning lance of lightning, he was glad he hadn't. He quickly settled on a pattern of how often and how fast the shaman cast what, and began to try to keep him stunned for brief periods.

In the meantime, he focused hard on doing damage to the other man, until at last the shaman was wounded enough from Whitecrow's powerful attacks to try to heal himself.

Immediately, Whitecrow struck him with his shield, with so much force that it actually stunned Ferruk, who worked his jaw for several moments, so powerful was the strike. While he was trying to regain the ability to speak another spell with his injured jaw, Whitecrow redoubled his efforts.

As the orc once more tried to heal himself, his face now showing the beginnings of a grudging respect, Whitecrow leaped into the air, slamming back down onto the ground with such tremendous force and weight that once more, the magical blast caused by his landing stunned his opponent.

Whitecrow was in tremendous pain, and knew that he wasn't in very good shape himself. If he allowed the other man to get off just one heal, he would be forced to yield, and wouldn't be able to do this contest again for another year. Such a thought was utterly unconscionable.

With a shout, he got the opening he was looking for. A slash at the shaman, and Ferruk automatically dodged it. As he did, he opened himself up, a small opening—almost missed—but enough.

Oh yes, it was enough. Whitecrow's superior reach and weight overpowered what minor defense was left over from Ferruk's dodge, and Whitecrow landed a powerful, debilitating blow.

Staggering, Ferruk sagged to one knee. "I yield!" he shouted.

Immediately, Ferruk was swept in a healing blast of magic as Thrall, watching from the sidelines, Healed him.

"It is finished," Thrall said, his voice exposing his pleasure at the surprising development.

Whitecrow was bathed in Healing energy as well, and then his shoulder was clasped in a powerful green hand once more. "I knew you had it in you, son. You're a fine addition to the Horde. I knew you'd last twenty minutes, but I can't say that I'm sorry to see that you actually triumphed in less than ten."

Ferruk grunted, clasping Whitecrow's hand, "Well played, warrior, well played."

"Come," Thrall said, "choose from the weapons in the armory here. Hopefully, whatever you select will serve you well, and for a few years yet to come."

They were joined by the other shaman, and Malovici as they stepped back into the armory. "Time to choose your weapon, eh?" Malovici asked him. "Thought you'd be a while longer. Glad to see you passed muster." Then he fell silent, stepping back and squatting down. He seemed to completely detach from what was going on as he began to sew his calf together.

Blinking at his abruptness, Whitecrow turned and looked at the array of weapons on the wall. Stepping forward, he reached out towards a flashy sword, with a gilded pommel. It had a keen edge, as well, and he was about to take it when he was interrupted.

The albino crow from his Naming flashed through the open doorway, into the room. Whitecrow barely ducked fast enough to avoid a collision as it dove at him. The others yelped and dove for cover as the bird began indiscriminate diving at them all.

"What the fuck?" Malovici asked, his dry voice actually showing some degree of surprise for a change.

"Damned if I know!" Ferruk said, "Bloody annoying bird. I'm gonna blast it."

"NO!" Whitecrow nearly shrieked.

"Okay, okay, damn," Ferruk said, chagrined. He ducked yet again as the bird, apparently enraged, dove towards him again.

Whitecrow put the sword back, and the bird landed on a beam, screaming down at them, an ear-splitting 'caw, caw, caw!' He turned towards it, "Quiet already, if you will!" It blinked at him, chirped out one more objecting 'caw,' and subsided.

"It's my totem animal," he said. "The source of my name."

Thrall stared at him, "Are you telling us that this bird was there for your Naming quest? In the flesh?"

Whitecrow nodded, "Yeah. Downright annoying at times, too."

The crow fluttered, as if it understood perfectly well what had just been said, and approved—or didn't. Ferruk, Thrall, and the other shaman exchanged significant, but cryptic looks.

"What?" Malovici asked.

"It's unusual for a totem animal to show itself in the flesh," Ferruk told him, watching Whitecrow as he spoke. "They're symbolic, not literal, according to Tauren shamans. Yet, there it is." He shrugged.

The crow, patience apparently worn out now, started shouting again, 'caw, caw, caw!' Whitecrow started towards it, and it hopped down onto a bench. As the group, now clustered around Whitecrow, approached, it hopped further along it towards the wall.

Whitecrow followed, feeling a bit like a trained dancing murloc. When it reached the end of the workbench, the crow flew out the window and was gone. Whitecrow blew a sigh through his nose and shrugged at the others as they stared at him.

Then, he saw a slight gleam from the end of the workbench. He stepped closer, his knees nearly touching the work surface. Leaning forward, he looked down into the crevice between the bench and the wall. There was something there.

Motioning the others back, he pulled the bench outwards. Something fell with a metallic clatter, and he reached down and picked up the handle of it. Straightening up, he lifted it into the light rays shining in through the open window.

It was an axe. It glittered amongst the dancing motes in the beam of light. It was simply made, not flashy or snappy. He made a slow arc with it. It was finely balanced, and he couldn't resist slashing it through the air again. Before he knew it, he was waving it, weaving in and out of the light as if dancing with the weapon and the light.

He looked at the others after a few moments of communing with the weapon. "It's as if it were made for me," he said, knowing his voice was filled with awe, maybe even reverence.

"Incredible," Ferruk said. Thrall grunted in agreement.

"Let's see it," Malovici said. When Whitecrow gave him a scathing look, he laughed. "Or not." He shrugged then, and went back to sewing himself.

"I'll take the axe," Whitecrow said, rather redundantly.

Once more, the others shared a significant look amongst themselves, and then followed Whitecrow out of the armory.

**20.**

In the year that followed, the three formed the tenuous beginnings of friendship. For that first year, Ferruk tried to entice the young bull into 'forgetting his troubles' by enjoying the questionable gifts of wine, women, and song.

At first, Whitecrow tried. But it wasn't long before he realized that the activities which Ferruk pursued with gleeful abandon, created discomfort in Whitecrow himself. He went less and less, until finally Ferruk relinquished the idea of ever turning the young bull towards his own pursuits.

Despite this, though, their friendship flourished. Whitecrow dedicated himself to learning to control his powerful, mercurial temper. To this end, he learned meditation and a sort of non-combat martial arts that he picked up, of all places, from the goblins.

When he took his first trip back to Ashenvale, he didn't explain himself, and asked only not to be followed. The other two respected his wishes, though Malovici did warn him that going alone was an utterly unwise decision. Whitecrow shrugged and left.

He spent a month there, that first time. He walked the places they'd walked, and sniffed for even a whiff of her scent. She never came, nor did the albino crow. But he waited, because in the way of youth, he couldn't give up the hope that she might just be a bit late. Or that she might change her mind.

In the end, he gave up and returned to his friends. And if his temper was short again, if he seemed especially out of control during battles, the others politely didn't remark on it. But the aftermath of that first year tried their friendship to its limits. Ferruk and Malovici, believing in the young bull, stuck out the moody explosiveness of the month that followed his return, and soon their alliance had deepened into something more real and sure.

The second year, he stayed again for a month, without as many tears, but without any loss of hope. She could come late, he thought, and so he stayed. When he returned to the others, not one of them spoke of his absence, and this time they knew to expect his outbursts of rage.

It was in the fifth year that he finally reduced the time he spent there to a mere two weeks. Some part of him protested, believing that he was in some way giving up on her. It was two more years before he managed to control that feeling, to release it, and to accept that it was pointless to spend more time there than that.

That seventh year was a landmark in more ways than one. It was then that he told Malovici and Ferruk where he went each year, and why. He explained that he didn't particularly want to be celibate, he just didn't want any other woman, couldn't get past the memories of her, even when he tried—which wasn't often.

Neither of them understood, but they accepted their friend as he was. In that way that many people have of understanding on a deep level that some things are sacred, neither of them ever joked about Whitecrow's feelings for the woman he'd loved and lost so long ago.

Not once did either try to genuinely talk him out of going, of hoping, though sometimes they objected to him going. It was more on principle, really, than anything else. They sometimes felt like they were supposed to be warning him off, so they half-heartedly tried. He never listened, and they gave it up.

In the ninth year, they met a troll named Nantu, and she became a fast member of their little group. The other three often found her hard to understand, and sometimes annoying, yet they all felt a sincere affection towards her. Though she seemed strong, tough, and resilient, there was something tender about her, almost wounded.

Perhaps she filled some need in them to protect and nurture, but whatever it was, all three of them staunchly supported her. Although in every appearance, she was far from delicate, an Amazon of a woman, the guys were sometimes ferocious in their defense of her. In their company, she softened, growing into a surprisingly motherly and compassionate woman.

The friends ventured into the forests and valleys and mountains and frozen plains of Northrend. They walked the halls of Naxxramas, visited the Vault of Acheron, and otherwise busied themselves with gaining Power and seeing all there was to see of the known world.

The years passed, until Ferruk met his match in Nerissa. He finally got it, he admitted to Whitecrow one day. "I know now why you aren't interested in other women. I get why you never stopped going."

Malovici privately admitted to Ferruk that he'd thought perhaps seeing Ferruk happy with a woman might have changed Whitecrow's mind and ended the yearly visits. Ferruk told Malovici that he didn't understand, and probably never would.

So despite Malovici's expectations, the group instead found themselves joining Whitecrow on his yearly sojourn for the first time in their entire history together. Driven together by an albino crow, Ferruk, Whitecrow, Malovici, and Nantu found themselves riding in companionable silence. Destination: Ashenvale.

**21.**

The Present

The four rode in relative silence, the dusty heat of the Barrens swirling around them as they passed, only to settle once more into stillness, as if they'd never been there. Whitecrow's fur soon matted with sweat, the others little better off, for all they had no fur.

Into the silence, Ferruk finally spoke, his voice hushed almost as if the quiet of the place were inviolable, "Any idea how long you want to stay this time?" Whitecrow knew his mind was in a cottage some miles away, with his pregnant wife and unborn child.

"Not sure, really. Depends on whether or not she shows up, of course," he told the anxious father.

Behind his back, the others exchanged looks that said clearly, 'Shouldn't be long, then. She's not going to be there.' Whitecrow sensed it, but ignored it. He knew how foolish he looked, going back year after year after year. But she was his Inamorata, and there was little else he could do.

Quiet descended again, no one daring to speak their feelings aloud. For a moment, Whitecrow toyed with the idea of letting this be the last year. He soon dismissed it, though, recognizing that he couldn't bring himself to give up on her this year. Maybe he never would.

He was running somewhat late this year, given all that had happened over the last few months. Thus he pushed himself hard, leaving the others to keep up or fall behind, whichever. No one complained, and they all kept up the grueling pace with him.

Days stretched into endless dry winds and punishing heat, until they finally passed the tiny outpost that marked the change from the Barrens into the lush humidity of the forests of Ashenvale. The changeover took less than a few hours, as sand gave way to waving grasses, and grasses at last gave way to forest and underbrush.

Upon reaching the cooler clime, Whitecrow set up an even more brutal pace, pushing himself and his mount with cold efficiency. Grimly, the others rode with him, driving themselves as hard as he.

Not long after they'd skirted the edges of Astranaar, Malovici finally posed the question to him: "Do you ride this way every time? Why not just fly?"

Whitecrow didn't look at him when he replied, "I walked to her the first time. Somehow, I think it matters that I walk to her each time."

"But you're not walking, you're riding," Malovici told him dryly.

Whitecrow shrugged. "We're connected to the earth**. I think that's what's important."

Malovici said no more, leaving no indication of his opinion one way or the other on this statement. Whitecrow didn't push the issue, and was glad that Malovici hadn't. Because, truth was, he couldn't have explained why it was so important to him.

At last, they drew nearer to the place where, so very many years ago, Whitecrow and Sunoree had camped and made love more times than he could count. He dismounted then, ignoring the others as they followed suit.

He stood then, though, reluctant to move on. He knew that he was being perverse, having pushed so hard to get here, to now stand there like a great, lumbering mammoth. But every year as he arrived, he faced the same disappointment.

It was always the same now. He rushed here, he fought with himself once here, and inevitably he would go into the camp and find it empty. Helplessly, he worked to let the emotion go.

I am not attached to the outcome, he told himself mentally. I accept whatever the Great Spirit sends me.

He sighed. He was attached to the outcome. For all his spiritual training, he was still attached to the outcome, that's why he kept coming, and kept coming. Even knowing he would face disappointment, he returned each time. All because he was, indeed, very attached to the outcome.

At last, screwing up his courage, he stepped over the rise—and stopped so abruptly that Nantu ran into his back.

The camp wasn't empty. Not at all.

**22.**

Whitecrow tried to hunker his massive frame down, unaware that his axe had already leaped into his hand nearly of its own volition. "Shhh," he hushed Nantu as she started to protest. The others took the hint, as well, and squatted to stare at the scene below.

"Malo," Whitecrow said. With only a look, Malovici vanished into the shadows, cloaked in magic and silence. In an instant, Whitecrow knew he was gone. He settled in to wait, practicing every trick he knew in order to keep calm.

Minutes passed, ticking by one by one, as those remaining waited for Malovici to complete his recon of the camp. Whitecrow tried not to rush in as he'd have done in his youth, but found remaining still and quiet to be almost unendurably challenging.

After what felt like a minor eternity, Malovici materialized silently beside him. "Well?" Whitecrow asked in a hushed whisper—despite the fact that they were far too far away to be heard by the camp below.

"She's there," he was told. "She's in the eastern tent, tied up."

Whitecrow breathed hard, fighting an age-old instinct with every fibre of his being. It took a good five deep breaths before he had himself under control enough to tersely ask, "How many?" 

"Far as I can tell," Malovici answered pensively, "there are four, but I would expect someone to be on sentry, or even scouting the area. I would assume up to seven, and hope for only the four."

"Wait," Ferruk said. "By 'she,' am I to assume you mean Whitecrow's lover?"

"My Inamorata," Whitecrow said bluntly. There was little point in keeping that secret anymore. The others needed to know what they were really fighting for.

Ferruk's response was a low, surprised whistle. "Wow, well, alright then. But what I want to know is, why are her own people holding her hostage?"

Whitecrow stood then, "Her brother," he announced grimly. "It has to be him. He beat her in their youth, for compromising the family's honor. Who knows what he's capable of now."

A chill ran through the camp, and silence fell as they began to make their way down the rise towards the camp, as quietly and stealthily as four people could do. Whitecrow looked at Malovici and said softly, "Can you get inside and cut her loose?"

"I doubt it, not until the fighting starts and the others are distracted," the other man replied after a moment's contemplation. "There's one inside, and one near the entry flap to the tent. I could cut in through the back, but it's hard to miss a cut tent."

"Okay. As soon as you can, please."

Malovici nodded grimly, then flashed what passed for him as a grin. "Just don't blame me if my penis falls off during the operation and the babe leaves you for greener pastures, buddy."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Whitecrow found himself grinning at his old friend's joke. A bit of his fear eased. Everything was going to be fine. They'd been friends for years; they could take on four Night Elves. Hadn't they already seen much, much worse?

But never for such high stakes as this, he realized grimly. It never occurred to him that Ferruk might wholly disagree on that score. As would any who had found such a love in their life.

Staunchly, Whitecrow gripped his axe handle and moved towards the camp. The dark truth he didn't want to face shadowed him as he slipped through the trees—there is always a chance of death in battle.

But even if he'd faced that truth head-on, there was no way that he would have backed down. Because when all was said and done, no matter the spiritual, or psychological tricks he employed to gain his peaceful, easy-going mien, he was forever a bull.

And those in the camp below, holding what Whitecrow saw as his, and his alone, were about to face the full wrath of a fully experienced adult bull. No longer possessed by the rashness of youth, not yet arrived at his dotage, fully endowed with the ferocity, the tenacity, the power, and rage of his ancestral line… Whitecrow was on his way.

If that rage had once been careless, cunning intelligence and a cool head now tempered it. He was formidable, and when he finally stepped into his camp, to free his woman, he made those idling there stare for a moment in shocked surprise.

**23.**

It was, indeed, Therival who stepped forward with a sneer. "You don't want to get involved in this," he told Whitecrow. "This is private business, we don't want any trouble with the Horde." He made placating gestures; obviously assuming that Whitecrow couldn't understand.

"You're wrong," Whitecrow told him, ignoring the shock on the faces of the men surrounding them. "I've come for Sunoree, and I won't be leaving without her."

"You?" Therival's voice twanged with stunned surprise. "You're Sunoree's Horde lover?" He nearly strangled on the words as he blurted them in clear rage.

"That's right," Whitecrow told him, pulling his axe out. "And this is the last time you hurt her, I swear it to you and her both."

"An abomination, a perversion," Therival snarled. "An elf would have been bad enough, but you… you're just a… a _creature_." He spat the last word with venomous hate.

Whitecrow laughed, his deep, rolling 'heh, heh, heh' rumbling through the camp. "That's the best you can do? I would have thought an Alliance prig could do a little better with his insults.

"But come, let's forgo the posturing, and have done with this. The sooner Sunoree's free of you, the better."

"She could be free now, all she'd have to do is agree to stay away from dangerous men who are as likely to kill her as not," Therival snapped.

Whitecrow's ears snapped backwards, his head lowering. "You're the monster here, Therival. You're more likely to kill her than I'll ever be. I'm here to protect her, you're here to harm her."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Therival said. "But then again, I expect no less from a creature with no more intelligence than a grell. Leave now, and live. If you don't, you'll die, I promise you that."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, little man," Whitecrow grinned, though his ears remained back in a clear indication that he remained angry.

"Enough!" shouted a dusky-skinned elf behind Therival. He lunged at Whitecrow, daggers flashing.

With a satisfied rumble, Whitecrow dodged the first swing, parried the next, and ignored the following. He and his opponent both ignored Sunoree's shouted, "Aleksose, no!"

And, when she shrieked, "Stop, this is madness!" they still ignored her.

The others had stepped in by this point, and the fight was on in earnest. Whitecrow and Aleksose stood face to face, though Aleksose continued to try to fight his way behind Whitecrow, attempting to get in a blow or two free of Whitecrow's devastating ripostes.

It seemed almost as if daggers were everywhere, both Malovici and Aleksose flashing them into the air every few moments. To curtain the onslaught, Whitecrow employed every ability he had to keep the others stunned as often as possible.

Ferruk moved close to Whitecrow, and Whitecrow deftly slashed Therival's hamstring. The other man nearly went down, but instead turned on Whitecrow again. Whitecrow's attention turned fully upon Therival, the greatest source of Sunoree's danger, in his opinion.

Grimly, the pair faced off, and Whitecrow slashed again, hard, at Therival's face. The powerful axe bit deep, leaving behind a gaping wound that showed clipped bone. Therival slashed at Whitecrow, opening a deep wound across his chest, shearing through the plate of his armor.

Ferruk's Healing washed over Whitecrow immediately, and Nantu's magic held a snarling, screaming Aleksose captive with powerful vines. It was just Therival and Whitecrow now, the others having been dispatched.

Respectfully, the group stepped back, though the outcome was already certain. Whitecrow's opponent was failing fast, while Whitecrow had been Healed during the heat of the battle.

When Whitecrow's axe bit deep into Therival's belly, he staggered back, calling out, "Sunoree, help! Please!"

Whitecrow's eyes met hers, and he saw the anguish there. "I cannot, Therival. It is you who cares so much for family honor. To help you now would be to dishonor us both."

"Fuck honor, can you let me die?" Then to Whitecrow, as Therival dropped to one knee, "Can you kill your lover's brother, Tauren?"

Stepping forward for one last blow, Whitecrow drew the axe up into the air. "I asked myself that many years ago, Therival. The answer is, 'yes.' Yes I can."

As the axe arced through the air, Sunoree's anguished cry split the air once more, "Whitecrow, no!"

With a sickening thud, the handle of the axe struck home. Therival fell, unconscious, to the ground. "But I don't have to today," Whitecrow told the prone form, then grunted as Sunoree's body struck his.

"Shhh, shhh, shhh," he told her soothingly as she wept. "He lives. He'll hurt in the morning, but he lives."

She nodded, sobbing too hard to talk. Finally, through her tears, she managed, "Th… than… thank you!"

He lifted her chin, and looked into her eyes. "I meant it when I told him that I considered the question all those years ago. I decided that I could kill your family if I had to, but that I'd do everything in my power not to have to.

"Come away with me today, and I'll let him live. But I promise you this, Sunoree. I won't let him live to hurt you again if you won't come away with me. I can't. It's not in me to know that I had the chance to free you from his tyranny, but didn't."

"I…how can I leave everything I've ever known?" She suddenly sounded small and afraid.

Whitecrow lifted her face again, so that he could look into her eyes. "Not everything, Sunoree." It was said softly, part promise, part plea.

She straightened up in his arms as if bolstering her courage. "You're right. I'll come," she said, "but where will we go?"

"I've a lot of ideas," Whitecrow told her. "I've had years to consider it, after all. But let's talk about that later."

The group mounted, preparing to leave. As they did, the magical totem holding Aleksose captive finally ran its course. He ran to Therival's side. "This isn't over, Tauren. We'll never let you have her. I'll kill her before I let her stay with you, and so would Therival."

"You can try," Whitecrow said. "But next time, none of us will be so merciful."

Now five, the group turned and rode away. Their destination for the moment, unspoken but understood by all except Sunoree, was a pond in the Barrens where it almost seemed a small village was starting.

Whitecrow looked over at Sunoree often, hardly believing she was there. He feared waking from this dream—a dream in which his greatest hope had come true.

But then again, it couldn't possibly be a dream, because in his dream, he wouldn't have left a rogue behind intent upon killing Sunoree rather than letting her live with Horde. Almost to reassure himself, he unconsciously touched the pommel of his axe.

When they came, and he had no doubt they would, he would be ready for them. A look exchanged with Ferruk told Whitecrow that he, too, would be ready.


	5. Chapter 5

**24.**

They discussed their options as they rode. "Well, they're probably going to track and follow us," Whitecrow told Ferruk.

The other man shook his head. "Not likely. They'll need to go for reinforcements, and by then, all sign of our passage will be gone. But they will find us. I suspect that they already know about Groll's little outpost in the Barrens and the unusual nature of the people living there. That's probably the first place they'll look."

Whitecrow translated, and Sunoree agreed—the Alliance faction did know about the odd couple living in the small, isolated acreage in the Barrens.

"I think we can get there without too many problems if we stay off the main roads. There's nothing in this area that can really challenge us," Ferruk continued. Whitecrow agreed, and they left the road, heading cross-country towards the Barrens.

"In the meantime," Whitecrow said, "I think it's a good idea to send someone along ahead and ask for reinforcements. I've a list of soldiers off duty right now that I think would agree to help us for a small fee. Some just for the hell of it."

"Ah'll go," Nantu volunteered. "Ah should be able ta git a few of mah own friends to come, too."

"Alright, then," Whitecrow said. "Thanks, Nantu. We'll meet you at Groll's 'stead."

With a nod, Nantu stopped her raptor, hopped down, whispered an incantation, and eventually vanished in a swirling puff of green magic. When she was safely gone, the rest turned and resumed their journey.

"How did Therival know about us?" Whitecrow had been burning to know, especially since he hadn't specifically known that he was a Tauren rather than an elf.

"I inadvertently blurted it out. Well, part of it, anyway," Sunoree responded, head hanging. Whitecrow's silence seemed to encourage her, and she continued, "He knew I was meeting someone, when we first met. I'd go home, and out again. I was, he said, 'too happy' not to be seeing someone.

"While I managed to keep him off of me for a while, it didn't really work very well past a certain time. I quit coming to see you so that he couldn't find you." Her eyes begged him to understand. He nodded at her—he did. Not at the time, of course, but as years passed, he'd come to understand it perfectly well.

"So he started demanding that I tell him who it was, and accusing me, and threatening me that if it were Aleksose again, he'd whip me again. Eventually, I caved under the pressure, and told him that it was a Horde soldier, and that he—you—were gone. He was furious, but aside from watching me for the next few years, he did nothing else.

"Because he was watching me, though, I couldn't come meet you. And then, after so many years had passed, I knew you'd quit coming. Even if you hadn't, I couldn't face you—"

Whitecrow stopped her. "What did you think I would do to you? Did you think I would whip you, too? Did you think I was like him?"

"No!" she yelped, nearly a shout, "No, SecCree, never that! I just couldn't bear to see the hurt I knew you would have every right to feel. I wasn't brave enough to—"

"I could far less have borne the knowledge that I caused you to be whipped, than the hurt of not seeing you, Sunoree," Whitecrow told her. "It's been that which has eaten at me through the years, that I couldn't find you once I was powerful enough, and stop your brother from whipping you at his whim."

"He never did it after the first time. And when he thought it was Aleksose again was the only time he threatened it, too."

"Why does he travel with a man he's so rabidly against his sister dating? It makes no sense," Whitecrow mused.

"Because, he tells me, he has to keep him close by. He has to watch him as closely as he watches me, maybe more so. He won't say why it's so important, though," Sunoree explained.

"Well, although I think it's a warped, perverted kind of love, I do think the guy loves you and wants to protect you," Whitecrow said. "He fought hard."

"He acted like a child when he thought he was going to die, though," she said bitterly.

Abruptly, Whitecrow stopped his kodo. "Do you think so? I don't. We all want to live, Sunoree. I know that I don't want to die. And when you're standing at death's door, do you know that you'll behave any differently?

"The thought of dying, of leaving my friends without someone I trust to run point for them… the idea of dying without having seen you again so I could tell you that I love you… I can't swear to you that I'd behave any differently than he did."

She frowned at him for a long moment, the others watching them in silence. "Why are you defending him? He wanted to kill you."

Whitecrow shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I shouldn't be, but we do share something in common—we both love you. He sucks at it, true, but he fought for you, he tries to protect you—"

"I don't need protecting!" Sunoree yelled at him. "He was protecting me from you! From _you_, SecCree!"

Whitecrow sat grinning at her from the back of his kodo. "What?" she asked him, "What's so funny?"

"Nothing. I just love your language's word for my name, and I love it when you say it." He couldn't stop grinning like a fool.

She sat scowling at him, then, with a smile fluttering desperately around the corners of her lips, told him, "You're not supposed to be so charming, we're having a fight."

"We are?" he asked. She nodded and tried to scowl. "I'm not?" his grin only got bigger as he asked it.

"Yes, and no!" she announced, almost managing a firm tone.

He turned his kodo and started riding again; looking around at the beautiful land they were traveling through. After a few moments of enjoying the lush greenery, the blue sky, and the feel of sun warming his fur, he said, "You think I'm charming."

"Not now, I don't," she told him. "Now you're just smug."

Whitecrow grinned again. "Damned right, I am."

They laughed, and when Whitecrow shared the joke—well, part of it, anyway—the others did, too.

They rode on towards Groll's no-longer-little cottage in the Barrens. It was a beautiful day, and they rode in harmony with one another and the land. For now, despite the battle they all knew was soon to come, they all felt at peace in their own ways.

Except, of course, for Malovici, who felt pretty much exactly as he always did. And he, personally, was rather looking forward to a battle with the Alliance faction. He felt this whole 'Whitecrow adventure' had all the makings of a good time, if he judged the tenacious brother right.

**25.**

Whitecrow couldn't keep his mind off of getting there and getting Sunoree to himself. When they camped that night, he managed, only through force of will not to go over and curl up with her and drive her body straight to the moon—along with his own.

Finally, unable to sleep, he rose. Without donning his armor, he walked out to where he suspected Malovici was. As soon as he sat down on a nearby stone, sure enough, Malovici emerged from magical shadows.

The pair sat in silence for quite some time, until Malovici asked, "Not naked with your Night Elf? Would'a thought you two would be all over each other this first night."

Whitecrow shrugged. "There are some things you don't share, Malo. This is one of them. When we're together again, it'll be somewhere private, and comfortable, and… private."

Gleaming orbs stared unblinkingly back at him from the depths of the pitch-black night. "You could go out a ways, into the woods. It would be private there."

Whitecrow shrugged. "It just doesn't feel right to do that right now. It's been so many years, Malo. I'm not sure how she feels about me now. We don't even really know each other anymore."

"And yet, she left her family, her people, her home, everything… all for you. I wonder how you can question her feelings," Malovici told him dryly.

"She did that for love of a green youngling," Whitecrow said heavily. "I'm different now."

"So is she," Malovici said bluntly. "Doesn't stop you any from going back every year to an abandoned beach in enemy territory."

Whitecrow sighed. "I know, Malo, I know."

"Don't worry, man. It's been longer than I can remember since I understood the strange behavior of the Living. I ponder that I might once have been like that. But then I realize that I'm not like that now, and I quit bothering to try to understand it."

Whitecrow chuckled at that. "I don't think being Living is quite as strange as being dead, old friend. How long have you been dead, anyway?"

Malovici stared out into the woods. "I'm not sure, really. Being dead isn't like being alive in a lot of ways, W.C. We don't keep track of death day like you do of birthdays. And somewhere around the first century or so, you lose track. And soon after that, you stop caring that you've lost track.

"A long time, though, I think." He dug in his pocket for needle and thread.

"If you used leather, it would last longer," Whitecrow told him thoughtfully.

"Yes, it probably would," Malovici said. "But then again, it's ugly, and I wouldn't have anything to do with all this spare time I'm left with when I travel with you safeniks."

Silence reigned for a time, until, "Not to mention that it stretches when it gets wet, and then tightens afterwards when it dries. That's pretty uncomfortable when fighting people who bleed a lot."

Whitecrow grunted. "Well, I guess there are some things I really don't want to know about being dead."

They were quiet again, both used to long silences in each other's presence. At length, Malovici's voice broke the stillness, creaking with ancient winds and broken old oaks. "You never told me she was your Inamorata—your soul mate."

"No. It didn't matter, I guess, as long as she wouldn't come to me."

"Couldn't," Malovici corrected him.

Whitecrow looked askance at the other man, "Couldn't," he agreed dryly.

"It did matter. We could have found her a long time ago if I'd known. Maybe. Or maybe I wouldn't have realized." Malovici shrugged. "Who's to say now?"

"What do you mean?" Whitecrow was sitting upright now, his tail lashing back and forth.

"I could see it. Your connection to her. But you don't have any kids, so I didn't really understand what I was seeing," Malovici told him.

Whitecrow just stared at him for a long moment. "Have you lost your mind, man? What are you talking about?"

"Parents," Malovici stated, as if that explained everything.

"What about them?"

"Well," Malovici said, "Parents are connected to their kids by a line of energy. It follows wherever they go. You can't follow it very far away from them, but you can follow it as long as they travel with you."

"What?" Whitecrow was completely confused now.

"It's like an umbilical cord of energy, and I can see it radiate out from their body. If they turn, the cord stretches back in the direction of the kid. So you could, theoretically, follow it."

"What's that got to do with me?" Comprehension was slowly starting to rise in Whitecrow, but he had to be sure he understood.

"You and her. You got the same thing between you. Yours is brighter, though. I think it's because you both have one, instead of only one from parent to child. I think yours goes both way. I didn't understand it; I figured it must be a strong parental bond for you. But when we got near her, it was connected to her."

"You didn't notice it all those years ago?"

"I don't remember if I did or not, man, I'm sorry. But I don't think I would have understood it then, either. I only understand it now because you stated that she's your Inamorata." Oddly enough, Malovici actually did look apologetic, Whitecrow realized.

Struggling to hold back his emotional turmoil, he stood and, thumping his friend on the shoulder, told him, "What's done is done, man. Now we know, now we know."

He walked away into the rich, loamy, slightly damp-smelling forest to think. He tried not to resent Malovici, but he went through many emotional swings and switches as he walked. Present through it all, though, was an elation that his sense that she was his Inamorata was confirmed.

And in such a concrete way! He shook his head in amazement as he stared up at the dark, cloudy sky. It would rain on the morrow, he realized, but didn't care if it rained on him in that moment.

Everything was so right with the world. Right, and perfect, and beautiful. She was there. She loved him. They were together. He could face anything.

And, he acknowledged grimly, he would probably be facing it very soon. But for now, he chose to bask in the comfort and happiness afforded by being with her again. His love, his lover… his Inamorata.

**26.**

It was Whitecrow and Sunoree who fell back the next day. They lingered in silence for a while, surrounded by forest sounds. Lush grasses, rising to the knees of their mounts, hushed even the sound of their passing, blending it in with the sounds of wind and birds.

Whitecrow focused on the warm sun and the scent of the small meadow they were riding through. He was trying very hard not to stare at Sunoree. She was everything he remembered her to be, down to the deeper dimple in the right cheek than the left. Yet he still felt compelled to study her, to see the slight changes from what he remembered.

Finally, since focusing on their surroundings was failing, he decided to question her further about herself. There remained things he didn't know, particularly about the man whom Whitecrow knew was preparing to pursue them.

"So do you have any other family?"

Sunoree looked startled by the sudden question, and Whitecrow cringed. He'd disrupted her… but no, she answered readily enough and with no apparent upset. "No. Just Therival. Our parents died when I was fifty. Therival had two children; they died also. His wife killed herself after that."

"Wow. How did they die?"

"They went to war. And as war often does, it took their lives. I think that's why Therival never lets me go adventuring without him. He often tells me that, when you lose your children, something inside you is broken forever. He holds onto me tighter because we're all we have left, I don't wonder." She looked infinitely sad, and Whitecrow fell back to silence as he pondered what she'd said.

"There are times in life when it seems as if any step you take is the wrong one. This, for me, is one of those times."

At Sunoree's surprised look, he sighed and told her, "I haven't lost a child. I can't really know that pain, though I think I can rather understand it. Now, I've taken from a hurting man, the last person he has in life. While I think you're better off, and I don't think his past excuses his treatment of you… I can't help but feel regret for the pain he'll experience."

They sat in silence for a while as they rode. At length, Sunoree told him, "It was hard on me. Leaving him, I mean. But I also think that maybe it'll be healthy for him. He's been so focused on protecting me that he's never found someone else to love. Someone else to focus on, someone to ease his heart."

Whitecrow sighed again. "Who knows if he can? They say that time heals all wounds, but I'm not so sure. Some things linger." He swallowed hard as he tried to control the echo of his own pain and loss. The separation from Sunoree had never dulled over the years. When he thought of it now, even with her beside him, the ricochet of hurt lashed him brutally. He turned away so she couldn't see it reflected in his eyes—his all too expressive eyes.

Despite his efforts, her voice flowed over him with musical silk, "Why are you so sad, SecCree?"

He turned to her again, knowing she could see his pain, naked on his face. "I lost you once. Now he has lost you. I know how it feels, and understanding him makes it a lot harder to hate him."

To his surprise, especially as it was her brother they were speaking of, she said astutely, "Yet you will kill him if you must." Her voice had a ring of regretful resignation.

He nodded mutely, and she continued, her voice pensive and distant, "I almost think you'd be doing him a favor, SecCree. He's been so tortured, for so long. I think leaving him may have been a favor to him, too, as painful as it is to admit. His obsession with me and with whom I might have been all those years ago was tearing him apart. I think more than a part of him has died inside. I haven't known him in many years now. I miss him, even when he's standing right beside me."

She looked at him, a deep sorrow, and an aching need etched across her expressive, beautiful features. "I sound like a monster, don't I; to wish my own brother dead." A tear tracked down her face as she turned away. "I wanted so much to be with you for so many years, SecCree. But in the end, I think I was running away from him as much as running to you."

When a sob escaped her, he reached over and grabbed the reins of her cat, stopping them both. He pulled her up onto his kodo with him and held her as she cried.

He felt oddly surreal, as he sat comforting the woman he loved more than life itself as she wept over losing the man Whitecrow had hated the most in the world for more years than he dared contemplate.

Life, he thought, was a very strange experience.

**27.**

It was the kind of day that makes mere mortals lose their focus. Heat rose in shimmering waves off of the sand, while scraggly bushes squatted with sinister abandon as far away from each other as they could get while sharing the same airspace. Nothing stirred except for the five riders and an occasional hecklefang and an adder or two.

Nothing disturbed them as they traveled, and they made good time. It had been days since they'd left Ashenvale, and now they were all more than ready to arrive at their destination. It would, unfortunately, be yet another day.

Of the group, only the single Forsaken seemed to be aware of what was going on around them. His low voice caught the others by surprise when he snapped gutturally, "Someone's coming."

A strange, almost visible frisson ran through the group. Heads lifted, spines subconsciously straightened. Awareness replaced lethargy—even the animals seeming to catch the tension of their riders and perking ears or heads towards the oncoming rider.

The route they were taking was the most likely overland route towards their destination, so it wasn't at all unlikely that someone should be able to find them there. They were all acutely aware that this meant that both sides of this conflict would find them fairly easy to find.

But the likelihood of ambush here didn't really exist. The brush was too sparse, and the wind-swept dunes too low to allow for anyone to hide with any dependable strategy. No, if there were to be a confrontation here, it would be direct and open.

And doubtless involve more than a single rider.

And yet… and yet, the troop found themselves on high alert, wakened and sharpened by two simple words. Whitecrow recognized the fact that this was their life. It would be their life forever, most likely. He and Sunoree would always live on high alert. Something inside him was surprised by the sadness that thought brought him.

Before he could lose himself in contemplation and regret, though, Nantu was within recognizable range. As soon as she was able to identify them, she drew up and waited for them to come within conversation range.

She fell into her customary position to the left of Whitecrow, between him and Ferruk as they passed her position. "Ev'ryting be ready. Groll's grumblin' 'bout bein' invaded, Nerissa is thrilled ta have guests. Da men are fortifyin' da area with low-lying fencing an' a lookout was already half built by the time Ah'd left."

Whitecrow shifted uncomfortably, "I doubt that's going to be necessary, don't you? I mean, how many people are they going to send for a single Night Elf captive that they probably don't expect to even be alive anymore?"

Nantu gave him a strange look. "Ya dunno who ya kidnapped, does ya?"

Whitecrow blinked at her. "Is that a trick question?"

Nantu's white teeth flashed against her blue skin. "She da sister of a high-rankin' occifer in dere army."

Whitecrow sighed. Things were just looking better and better all the time. At Sunoree's strange look, he told her, "I didn't know your brother was a…important… officer in your military. I just found out." He didn't know her language's word for "high ranking."

She sighed herself. "I'm sorry, I forget how much you know and how much you don't."

"Well, it definitely complicates things. It seems he's going to get a fair amount of help in his campaign to get you back. Looks like things are going to get ugly soon." With the words out in the open between them, he felt a sense of heavy resignation. All the fighting seemed especially futile to him lately. If love were possible between their races, surely peace could be found?

He shook his head—probably not in his lifetime.

They rode on through the day in silence, camping for the night with their lone sentinel guarding them in his silent nightly vigil. Whitecrow's eyes met Sunoree's several times in the darkness of the night, and he knew that they shared the same thoughts. Tomorrow, they would arrive, and the excuses to avoid the moment of intimacy would come to an end. He tossed and turned as he thought of it.

Would he be able to get past the awkwardness that had stood between them since they'd seen each other again? Would she find his continued inexperience to be undesirable? Would she be turned off by him?

When she last saw him, he'd been a youngling still. His body had been more like an elf's in some ways. He'd been tall even then, but now he'd filled out. He was massive now, corded with powerful, thick muscles that bulged beneath his fur. No more was he slender in any way, instead being thick and curved.

Now, his shoulders, squat and broad, nearly spanned as far as his massive black rack of horns. Where once his thighs had been a narrow jut, they were now thick curves of uncompromising, dense muscle. In reality, his body had changed in dramatic and clearly visible ways.

He looked over at her again. Hers, on the other hand, hadn't changed at all. He smothered a groan as he rolled away from the camp so that no one might notice his raging penis thrusting against his blanket. This was one of the hazards of his race—upon arousal, hiding it was nearly impossible for bulls.

He'd changed in other ways, too. He was hotheaded and impulsive as a youngling. Maybe she'd loved that spontaneity in him. Perhaps she would find his iron self-control to be boring now.

He finally got up again and joined Malovici. The other man made no comment, to Whitecrow's relief. His erection had passed, but he still felt so conflicted and unsure that he almost believed his discomfort would be physically visible even without the waving flag of his penis to announce it.

The two sat in comfortable silence for a while, until Malovici got up to take a walk around the perimeter. "Women never find insecurity attractive," Malovici told Whitecrow as he left.

"What do you know of it, Malo? You've been dead so long that you've forgotten that you're dead and don't remember what women want."

Malovici's only answer was a grunt from somewhere in the darkness. Irritated, Whitecrow returned to his bed, studiously concentrating on not meeting the glow of Sunoree's eyes across the fire.

Tomorrow seemed to loom, immediate and menacing on the horizon. Yet at the same time, it felt like it was an eternity away. How, Whitecrow wondered, could a man both hope and fear that a moment he longs for with every ounce of his being, might never come?

**28.**

Groll met then a ways out from what was rapidly becoming a fortified encampment. To anyone who didn't spend their days in continual proximity to orcs, he looked as bestial and fearsome as always.

To their small group, he looked haggard and rather beset. He grunted a greeting and joined them as they reached him. The look he shot Whitecrow was pure annoyance, nearing venom, even. Whitecrow threw his hands up in mock defeat.

"Your little army gives 'home invasion' a whole new meaning," Groll growled. Nantu smothered a snicker when his venomous look swung her way. "It's a good thing Shantille has learned to control her gift—mostly. I don't trust some of your 'friends'."

"That's what's so great about some of them. They enjoy this kind of thing. Just be glad they're on our side, I say," Whitecrow told him.

Introductions were made, with Whitecrow translating, and Groll managed a tight, but relatively speaking, polite, smile. Sunoree seemed nervous in the big orc's presence, blanching and staring openly at the red glow of his demon-tainted eyes. She'd stared at Ferruk's, also, but Groll's were more pronounced.

As they rode on, she told Whitecrow that Groll was fairly notorious amongst her people—it seemed he often targeted them specifically. And he was known to be lethal and exceptionally cruel. His extraordinary glee when killing was an established fact amongst her people.

Whitecrow dryly relayed to Groll that he was becoming something of a legend amongst the Night Elves. The news appeared to cheer the other man up considerably. Groll was, of course, a cunning and brutal fighter, but there could be little doubt that at least some of the fear was hyped up and based on myth or exaggeration.

Regardless of that, Groll clearly enjoyed the makings of his reputation among at least one segment of his enemies. Like any orc, he lived first and foremost on the dictates of honor and duty… and secondly on the rules of war. One of which was; once the enemy fears you, the war is half won. To be feared by his enemies was a great compliment.

This logic, of course, was utterly lost on Sunoree when Whitecrow tried to explain. She was a fighter more because she had to be, than because she found any joy in it. She pointed out only that the elves would be bringing in even more forces than they might have, due to the presence of someone that they feared. In troubled silence, Whitecrow allowed the subject to drop.

In due time, they arrived at the small encampment. Whitecrow and Sunoree were bustled off to Tensor's cabin, where Whitecrow left her for the time being, with the solemn promise to inspect the surrounding defenses and return to her with as much speed as possible.

The others courteously diverted their faces, allowing Whitecrow an opportunity to kiss Sunoree, but he chose not to do so. He feared that even touching her at that point would cause him significant embarrassment and discomfort for the duration of the inspection.

So he simply smiled at her, promised again to return swiftly, and went to inspect the defenses. He knew, of course, that the others would inspect them, and quite thoroughly, at that.

But two things caused him to go with them to do it. First, he really wanted to make sure for himself. Not even his trust in his companions—complete though it was—could be as reassuring as knowing for himself.

And secondly, he wanted to put off the inevitable moment when he would have to face trying to discern when he was welcome back to her bed—or if.

The circuit around the small area was quick, leaving Whitecrow bellowing in rage. The defenses around the short wall built around the encampment were more than adequate. In fact, they were brilliant.

But the edge along the water wasn't covered at all. He roared and yelled when he was told that it was unlikely the elves would come from that route, as they didn't like water. In general, they wouldn't use water, even with boats, due to 'silly superstitions' they had about it.

Whitecrow didn't care. It wouldn't be on his watch that they discarded their 'silly superstitions,' or better yet, hired someone without them. The water was to be covered by watchers at all times, even in the night. The keen-eyed Blood Elves would be assigned. When it was pointed out that their glowing green eyes gave them away at night, Whitecrow stated that this might be the best deterrent possible.

There was much grumbling and complaining as he stomped away, but a cuff or two from Ferruk or Groll sent orcs and blood elves alike rushing about in compliance.

Before he even reached the door of the purloined cabin, the shore was covered by watchers.

Whitecrow stopped to recover from his unaccustomed bout of temper before he opened the door, drinking in several great gulps of air as if it were ambrosia. Slowly, his anger was soothed, passing into the ether to be transmuted.

Pushing open the door, he found Sunoree occupied with her leatherworking. He smiled at the crease in her brow, brought on by deepest concentration. He moved towards her, chuckling when she jumped as his hands landed on her shoulders. He certainly hadn't snuck up on her—as if anyone with his great bulk could do so without magical means.

Standing up, she turned and burrowed into his arms, leather and needle discarded without a further thought. Whitecrow drew her close as his nostrils flared. Her scent flowed into him, a soothing balm for his soul.

**29.**

Whitecrow's hands wandered down her back, feeling how small and delicate she felt. Compared to him, she was tiny, her bones fragile beneath his questing hands. A deep sense of tenderness rose in him, a protective contentedness that enveloped the world in a lustful haze.

Her eyes met his, and for a moment he feared she might know what was rolling through his mind. But instead, she smiled and ran a hand down the side of his face.

"I missed—"

"You're so—" Whitecrow laughed as they both trailed off, interrupting each other. Sunoree blushed, a rosy hue covering skin rendered pale lavender in the glow from the fireplace. She burrowed her face into his shoulder, and he realized that she felt as self-conscious as he did.

He lifted her face up to his, tamping down his discomfort with an effort of sheer will. "You're still beautiful, Sunoree," he said softly. He hoped that his voice conveyed at least a part of the wealth of his feelings for her.

Because, deities knew, he couldn't speak them aloud. It was too intimidating.

She looked up at him, "I wanted to come, SecCree. So many times, I wanted to co—" His finger shut off her words.

"No. We won't talk about the past right now. Later, we will. But right now, I can't think about it." She smiled, relief washing over her face and relaxing her body palpably. "I'm not angry, Sunoree. I'm not a green calf any longer."

She wrapped her arms around his neck, arching closer to him. His penis prodded against her belly as it pushed for freedom. He groaned as it snarled in his armor.

That was all it took for them both to get immediately past their insecurities. With a startled sound, she began freely pulling his armor off. They bounced off of each other as he, in his turn, tried to divest her of her leathers. For several moments, they were fully entangled with each other, arms and clothing wrapped in unimaginable ways.

Tumbling back onto the bed behind him, Whitecrow found himself laughing. Sunoree laughed as well, until finally she gave up and let Whitecrow do the work of sorting out their entanglement.

When at last the deed was done, they were both naked. They'd left off undressing each other, choosing instead the faster option of each disrobing personally. This left them once more standing an arm's length away from one another.

The shyness was back, just that fast, and they stared at each other in silence. An unexpected 'pop!' from the fire at the hearth startled them both, causing a nervous giggle to escape from Sunoree.

Whitecrow grinned and pulled her towards him. Less to say it, and more to simply break the silence, he told her, "Just for that, I think I'll let the fire die, and keep you warm, myself."

He wasn't really sure when or how the segue was made, but he found himself kissing her then. Her curves melted into his body as her lips pressed against his muzzle. Her scent was exquisite, filling his flaring nostrils with knowledge of her arousal.

Her skin was soft beneath the pads of his paws, sleek with coolness, yet radiating warmth wherever he paused in his exploration. Lips softer and sweeter than the dewy petals of a peacebloom peppered his with kisses. They were deep violet, he realized when he pulled back to gaze at her majestic beauty.

He knew now, that when he'd tried to tell her that she was beautiful all those years ago, he'd said 'majestic' instead. Studying her perfectly sculpted body, he knew he'd used the right word—albeit unintentionally.

His penis was now jutting aggressively between them, and her skin touching it was driving him as wild as the kisses on his immensely sensitive muzzle. His distant ancestors had used that sensitive muzzle and sense of smell once to separate grasses from undesirable plants.

Now, he used it to explore her face, her neck, even her hair. His blood quickened with the surging desire that flowed through him, and he wanted little more than to be inside her again.

But it had been so long that he was going to draw every moment of wonder from this reunion. Who knew what the future held? He lipped along her shoulder, tasting salty sweat, Sungrass soap, and pheromones.

Her soft moans filled his senses, overwhelming him with an urge to dominate, to take, to have… for a moment, he clenched one fist, struggling with his inner animal. He realized that she'd gone very still, and his jaw was nearly crushing her against him.

Chest heaving, he grunted, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry… I just want you so much—"

"Hush," she told him softly. "I know. I missed you terribly, as well."

A low groan surged through him, coming out as a plaintive lowing sound. His voice was guttural, low, bestial; "I'm trying to control myself. I've learned to control my anger pretty well, but not this…" Deities, but he wanted her with everything he was.

His penis surged and twitched, and he felt the wet slipperiness of his precum dribbling through his own fur, snaking a trail against his skin as it seeped downwards. Her scent, musky and heady, was far stronger now, his nostrils widening to take it in. It was the smell more than anything that was driving his lust to a fever pitch.

He picked her up, and with a half turn dropped her onto the bed he was standing beside in the one-room cabin. It was slightly lumpy and certainly uncomfortable for anyone who might sleep there, but he didn't care. Her pale body lying against the warm browns of the leather, gleaming in the pale light from the fire, was beyond magnificent.

He'd dreamed of this moment for years, yet now that it was here, he realized that he hadn't even begun to remember accurately the immense beauty of her body. A beauty, he knew, that reflected more to him than just her body. Her soul seemed to shimmer out from her, the sweetness of her personality uniting with the loveliness of her body to create an incomparable beauty.

He towered over her, more aroused than he could ever remember having been in his life. He slowly lowered himself over her on the bed, watching her, not returning the smile she was giving him.

He licked her neck, then slowly trailed down across her chest. He stopped to lavish his attention on her breasts, grunting as she wriggled to get more comfortable and elbowed him roughly in the ribs. She giggled, and this time he grinned at her, an unconsciously feral look blatant within the expression. Her eyes widened, and her breathing hastened.

He returned his attention to the breast he'd been exploring, and squeezed it gently. It was soft, with an underlying, though slight firmness. Her deep violet nipple was already standing up, a hard nub proudly pointing at him from the rosette of her areola. He licked it, a thrill of power and pleasure running through him as she gasped and arched in response.

He teased it, teeth grazing lightly at first, then tugging ever-so-slightly at it. Her hand tangled in his mane, and then snaked through that up to the sensitive spot at the base of his horns, above his ears. His penis jerked against her leg, and a moan thrummed through him.

He continued to tease and taste her breast, before turning to the other one. He looked up from his prize to see her watching him, her eyes half-shut. Her face was languid, dark lips parted slightly, teeth buried whitely in the lower one. It was too much to resist, and he moved back up to kiss her again, his tongue working to point enough so that it was a teasing lick, not a full blanketing of her face.

She responded with untamed desire, her body moving beneath him, urgent and as lustful as he. He left her lips, sweet as they were, and moved down immediately to between her legs. He was running out of will power with every touch, and could no longer resist the urgent call of the scent rising from her most secret of places.

Once there, he slid his tongue between the lips of her labia, once more trying to narrow it enough so that it fit between, rather than spilling out across the whole thing. Then, when the taste of her desire filled him, he forgot all about trying to find a way to fit to her, and gave in to his own urge to taste and explore.

His tongue quested across her, he could feel the sleek satin of the skin between her lips, the hard little bead of her clitoris nudged free of its hood. Liquid, slightly salty but mostly without taste, ran down her leg, and he captured it with his tongue.

As he slurped and licked and delved, she arched and twisted, and his ears turned upwards towards her as she panted and moaned with every touch of his tongue. He looked up the plane of her belly, her breasts mounded from lying on her back. Once more, he had to fight the urge to leap on her and ravage her without concern for her well-being. This was no Tauren woman, able to withstand the full, uncontrolled rut of a bull.

So he clamped down on his desire, and returned full attention to the deep violet creases before him. Filled with blood by her arousal, her inner lips were full and engorged. He ran his tongue down them again, past her clitoris, and into her vaginal entrance.

She cried out, her voice throaty and yet high. In a rhythm older than time itself, he began to slide in and out of her. She twisted and jerked, then said his name in a slow, almost pained voice. "SecCree…" Liquid gushed into his mouth, and he felt the tight walls surrounding his tongue quiver and convulse.

He growled his pleasure, loving the power he had to send her over the edge. As she subsided from her convulsing orgasm, he slowly kissed up her body. Lying beside her, he touched her, tugging lightly at her nipple with one hand.

His eyes met hers, and he was surprised to find her staring intently at him. His ears flickered in question, and she told him, "I have an idea. Something I've wanted to try with you since we first met."

He blinked at her. That was most unexpected, and somehow immensely gratifying. She'd been thinking about something sexual she wanted to do with him since they'd met, had she?

She started to manipulate him into position, until he was squatting on the bed, his rump on his hocks rather than on the bed. Then she slid her knees underneath him. He looked down at her, finding the position to be thrillingly erotic.

She was in the perfect position now that she could lick his penis, and she did. Her violet tongue swept over the black tip of his penis as she leaned forward, and it lurched in uncontrolled response, nearly knocking her backwards.

They both chuckled, he slightly embarrassed. It was an unconscious response that he couldn't control, but he knew he didn't need to make excuses for it. She understood, and simply braced herself somewhat before returning her attention to the top of his now slippery penis.

As a drop of precum rolled down it, she reached her tongue out and captured it, her hand catching the responsive twitch before it could topple her backwards. He gripped the headboard behind her to keep his balance and continued to watch her. She licked him, her tongue running up and down the back of his penis. He fought the powerful urge to lick her, instead snuffling against the curve of her shoulder, lipping at the skin there as delicately as he could.

Her hands ran up and down him, mimicking the sheath of her vaginal walls, and he groaned as desire built up even higher in him. But she didn't stop there, becoming braver and braver as he responded positively to her explorations. Her body arched against him, and he found his penis pillowed between her breasts.

He tried to hump against her, his body taking control over his mind. To her credit, she flowed with it, her arms pressed firmly against her breasts to pocket his black penis in a lilac cradle of soft, yielding flesh.

Her hands held onto the top of his penis, and as his hips shifted in their forward and backwards rocking motion, he found that her body created a sexy friction for him. Her hands then gave way to her mouth, which barely managed to take in the tip of him.

But regardless of the fact that she could barely get any of him into her mouth, it was intensely sensual, and potently erotic. He thrust against her body, slick with his precum now.

When his orgasm came, it was unexpected, creeping up on him in haste. He barely had time to grunt out a warning before he began to shoot pearlescent streamers of fluid. She managed to take some of it in her mouth, but it was far too much for her, and much of it struck her chin and neck, running down in a soft blanket to cover her breasts and chest.

Embarrassed that he hadn't held out longer, that he hadn't warned her faster, and that he had crushed part of the headboard, he slipped out of her arms and bounded across the room to grab a cloth that sat near the large tub in the corner.

He cleaned her gently, dropped the cloth on the floor, and tumbled into the bed beside her.

They chatted for a few moments about inconsequential things- the state of the defenses, the ride there, even the weather- until he realized that she'd fallen asleep. For a moment, he regretted not telling her that he loved her, but then realized that they'd have plenty of time.

They made love several more times that night. Sometimes pleasing each other with hands or mouths, sometimes with Sunoree shifting so that they could have intercourse. They slept in the next day—if sleeping is what one might call dozing between sexual moments.

Soon enough, Whitecrow knew life would interrupt them. But for the moment, he basked in the chance to explore the many thing his mind had conjured up for them to do in bed—and out of it—through the many years of separation.

Time enough later for the serious business of fighting.


	6. Chapter 6

**30.**

When he finally got up, Whitecrow left Sunoree sleeping on the small bed in Tensor's cabin. Stepping out into the brilliant day, he blinked owlishly, the sunlight painful after so many hours of deep gloom inside the poorly lit cabin.

Quiet lay across the encampment as people rested, listless in the high heat of the day. A breeze slowly oozed across the land, stirring up more heat and filling the air with a dusty haze. Waves of heat shimmered up off of the golden sand, and Whitecrow smiled with satisfaction. It was unlikely that anyone would attack in these conditions.

Whitecrow was in equal parts innervated by being reunited with Sunoree, and enervated by the oppressive and dense atmosphere of the Barrens. He'd never particularly liked it here, but he was appreciative of the difficulties that the place would present to his enemies.

Clomping across the encampment, he started checking the defenses again. When he arrived at the waterline again, he passed Malovici, greeting him with a silent salute. Malovici returned it, before staring back out across the water.

But the next waterline guard, a few feet away, was a Blood Elf. And he was dozing in the mid-day heat. Whitecrow tried to be angry about it, but since Malovici was only feet away, he found it difficult to be.

So, reaching into the dark recesses of his mind, he finally found a memory of how to scowl. Pasting the memory onto his face, he roared, "Wake up!"

The Blood Elf started so badly that he fell out of the tree he was in, and Whitecrow worked to maintain the look of rage that he'd plastered across his muzzle.

"Whoa!" Malovici said from beside him. "What's the matter with you, man?"

Crossing his arms, Whitecrow snapped his scowling gaze onto Malovici, "This one's sleepin' on the job. That'll get someone killed!"

"I told him to take a break, you big ox. But really, what the hell is the matter with you?"

"Whadda ya mean?" Whitecrow's ears twitched as he focused on maintaining his fierce visage.

"You look like you ate a fuckin' turd, man."

Whitecrow tried to work up some justified anger. He really tried. But by god, that was funny. "How the hell do you know what someone looks like after they ate a turd?"

At this, the Blood Elf let out a stifled guffaw. It was enough, though, to start Whitecrow laughing. He and the Blood Elf both dissolved into laughter, Malovici standing with dangling arms and watching them both.

When they showed no sign of stopping, Malovici grumbled something likely uncomplimentary, about 'the living,' and wandered back to his post. Whitecrow tried to get himself under control, but every time he got almost there, the Blood Elf would start laughing again, and set him off once more.

Eventually, though, the bout of laughing passed, and Whitecrow thumped the Blood Elf on the shoulder. "Rest, friend. I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't realize Malo had given you leave to rest."

"No big, W.C.," the man said, and turned back to his tree, still grinning slightly.

Whitecrow clomped over to Malovici, towering over him in the shade of a tall frond. "Do I know that guy?" he asked the Forsaken man.

"Nah, prolly not," Malovici said. "He's one of Nantu's admirers. Seems a lot of Silvermoon's lower city took quite a liking to her after her adventures with Vranesh. As an extension, the rest of us seem to be pretty well known to them, too, now."

They stood silently for a bit. "Everything seems to be in order. I wonder how long it'll be before they attack." Whitecrow pondered.

Malovici didn't speak for some time. When he finally did, his voice was even more strained and creaking than usual, "Likely in the morning, or the late evening. Too hot now for war games."

"I figure you're right," Whitecrow told him.

"She sleeping?"

"Yeah." His grin was back, and he didn't bother to smother it.

"Dunno what the deal is with all of you people. At this rate, it's gonna become downright abnormal to see anyone sticking to their own kind."

Whitecrow shrugged. "You don't exactly get to choose, Malo. Love just kind of happens to you. I can honestly say that I didn't plan the way things went with Sunoree and me."

Malovici fidgeted. He took his needle out. He put it back. He took it out again. "That elf's back on duty?"

"Yeah."

Needle and thread popped back out. "Been too quite today. Haven't even seen a scout that I know of. They should know where we are by now."

"Let me know if you hear anything." Whitecrow was already walking away, but knew Malovici nodded behind him.

When Sunoree woke up, the small group, sans Malovici, strolled the new enclosure. In the early evening, they went for a swim, until darkness fell and it became harder to see into the gathering deep around the water.

A bonfire was lit, and soon the off-duty mercenaries and friends had gathered around. An impromptu party took place, surprisingly enough, complete with a miniature band. Once the small group of diverse people had managed to find a rhythm together, there was dancing and a fair amount of drinking.

But the party didn't last over-long, as no one was ready or willing to get drunk. Tomorrow morning's duty schedule would arrive all too soon. And if they were attacked that night, they couldn't afford for people to have muddled heads.

The early hours of the night found Whitecrow, Sunoree, Ferruk, Nerissa, and Groll sitting still around the fire, chatting amiably. Whitecrow was, for the first time ever, telling the story of his Naming. It was slow going, as he translated for Sunoree while he told the others in Orcish.

The fire was dying, almost down to coals when he was nearing the end of his story. It was then that it happened.

Whitecrow chanced to look up as a dark figure emerged from the pitch-black night. Hooded in a dark cloak, the tall figure stopped the instant Whitecrow noticed it.

With a snarl, Whitecrow was on his feet, not believing for an instant that anyone in the encampment would have snuck up on them. Everyone there had the good sense to warn of a nighttime approach.

This, Whitecrow knew instinctively, was an enemy.

The response of his friends was imperceptibly slower than his. They had drawn weapons before they even knew why Whitecrow had done so. It was the way of the soldier. As fast as the figure had appeared, there were weapons at the spot its throat.

Slowly, the figure spread its hands, letting the cloak slowly slide down, exposing humanoid hands, color nondescript in the gloom. Moving just as slowly, the hands pushed back the hood.

Standing boldly before them, with fangs gleaming redly in the light of the dwindling coals, was Therival.

**31.**

"What the devil are you doing here?" Ferruk was snarling, but Whitecrow let his axe fall, then deliberately sheathed it.

"He's here to see his sister."

He translated, and Therival nodded. "More than that, though. I'd like to speak with you." His eyes fell on Sunoree. "Privately, if you don't mind."

Whitecrow stood staring at the other man silently.

"You don't trust me," Therival said dryly. "I don't blame you. Bring one of the others. If they don't speak Darnassian, we'll still have privacy, won't we?"

Whitecrow gave a long, low whistle, the kind some sort of nocturnal creature might make in speaking to its mate at a distance. Almost instantly, Malovici emerged from the shadows. As did Nantu, who had gone to the Necessary just before Therival's arrival.

"Sorry, Nantu, I was calling Malovici."

"S'okay, mon. You catch da brothah tryin' to sneak into camp?"

"No, he came voluntarily. Now he wishes to speak to me privately. I hardly think such an idea is wise, given that I've just stolen his sister from him."

"I'm not stupid, I know she went willingly," Therival said in heavily accented Orcish. When they all stared at him in varying degrees of shock, including Sunoree, he said, "If I'm to show you that I'm sincere in my reasons for being here, I shant do so by starting out with lies by omission."

"That's true," Whitecrow told him. "But it certainly makes things even more delicate. There must be a reason why you've learned Orcish."

"There is," Therival told him, now in heavily accented Tauren speech. "But I don't wish to speak of it in front of the others. I wish to have private words with you, so that you might determine my sincerity or lack of it before you speak to them."

He sighed heavily and then continued in Tauren, "It's strange to think that a few days ago, I sought to kill you. Today, I shall ask you to champion me to my sister and your leaders. Come, let us speak before I lose my will to follow this through."

Whitecrow nodded, then spoke mentally to Malovici, ignoring the pain in his head through sheer will, _Follow behind us. I don't know how much danger he is to me._

Malovici nodded. He replied back curtly, _I'll kill him if he makes a single false move._ Whitecrow understood. The least sign of danger to himself from this rogue, and Malovici wouldn't simply knock him unconscious. The man would die. He tried to find some regret at the thought. None came.

Silently, he kissed a trembling Sunoree on the head. He gestured to Malovici, and then raised his hand to Therival, signing him to lead the way towards the water. The three of them melted into the darkness.

They walked some yards, before they came to a small Sergeant's post. It actually had fairly comfortable folding chairs, thought Whitecrow lowered his massive frame into one of them rather tentatively. Although it didn't look as if it would, it supported his weight easily.

He leaned back and gazed into the darkness across the water. More and more details were becoming visible even in the deep gloom as his eyes adjusted from leaving the light. "Make this quick, I'm not in the mood to be talking to you," he said in Darnassian.

"Very well," Therival replied in kind. "You should know that I didn't come to take Sunoree back. She's made her decision, and now that I've gotten to know you a little better," his voice was dry and rather self-amused as he said the last, "I recognize that she's at least as safe with you as she ever was with me."

"I'm not sure she was ever safe with you, except from other people, perhaps," Whitecrow said coldly. He couldn't like this man, whatever happened between them.

To his credit, Therival winced at the statement. "I deserve that, I know it. But you must understand. I don't excuse my actions, but there were reasons for it. Reasons I couldn't share with her."

"Yet you'll share them with me now," Whitecrow speculated.

"Yes." Therival shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "If you're to protect her, you'll have to know what you're dealing with.

"Listen, SecCree," Whitecrow thought it didn't sound nearly as nice when Therival said it as when Sunoree did, "there are things going on that you don't know about. I'm not who I seem to be, and neither is Aleksose." His eyes bore directly into Whitecrow's.

"In what way?"

"We're spies." The words hung between the two of them like a fence between feuding farmers. Therival looked away again. "I know every Horde language, and so does Aleksose. But we're very different from one another. Aleksose is not just a spy, but an assassin, too. And he enjoys it. He enjoys torturing, he enjoys… perversions."

Whitecrow drew in a deep breath. "And he wanted Sunoree."

"Yes. He wanted her. So he courted her, to try to get her to marry him. He killed his last wife. It can't be proven—that's how he works—but he killed her. And I know how much he relishes the pain and suffering of those he tortures. I've watched it.

"The worst part of it all, though, is that he most especially enjoys hurting innocents. He's dark, SecCree. But you'd never know it to meet him. He's charming, even kind. He dotes on his victim first, then he strikes out at him or her later." A shudder ran through his body, and he was silent for a while.

"She was going to run away with him. The worst part was, the servants would help her. I would hire people to watch her, to stop her, and she would entrance them all with her sweet nature. They'd meet Aleksose and be just as enchanted by him.

"I had no help. It seemed as if everyone were against me. I couldn't tell her about him, or I would be executed—there are always spies in your household when you're a spy. The only thing I could do was to punish her in a way that also punished the servants." He sighed, and Whitecrow saw a tear roll down his cheek.

"I didn't want to do it. It was the last resort. But they had to know that with every escape attempt, she would be hurt. That to help her try was to get her hurt."

His voice was tight and harsh as he continued, like the popping of wood in a merry fire. "I've hated myself for it ever since, but it saved her life." His eyes met Whitecrow's again. "The only thing worse than the suffering of someone you love, is when you create that suffering yourself."

He stood, and walked over to a nearby tree. Suddenly, his fist slammed into it. Whitecrow's raised hand stayed Malovici. "If only she had trusted me! If only she would have listened to what I was trying to tell her without betraying my oaths!" His head dropped against the tree.

"She couldn't hear you," Whitecrow told him. "She was enchanted by the man, no doubt fancied herself in love with him." He grinned whitely in the darkness, "Love can make a person do crazy things."

Therival chuckled, though with little enthusiasm. "You came every year, didn't you? That whole time, you came every single year."

"Yes," Whitecrow said.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Whitecrow shrugged. "You were protecting her. I get that."

Therival sighed. "I love her. I've done a [piss-poor] job at it, but I really do love her." Whitecrow didn't ask what the epithet was in his sentence. Sunoree hadn't taught him, but he figured he could probably guess close enough.

Bluntly, Whitecrow said, "Why did you come here?"

Therival paced for a moment. "I came to warn you. To tell you about Aleksose. To let you know that he's excited, and looking forward to the coming fighting. I told him to drop it. He refused, saying he would assassinate her himself. He says that she knows too much. I convinced him that she knows nothing. So he said he'd let her live, but he'd kill you."

"I'm not so easy to kill," Whitecrow told him.

"Perhaps not," was Therival's answer, "but if he managed it, it would kill Sunoree anyway." Once more, he locked gazes with Whitecrow. "I fear this will not be over until one or the other of you is dead."

"I promise you this, Therival. It won't be me," Whitecrow's assurance was issued in an arctic voice, layered with self-assurance and harsh menace.

"I believe that you believe that," Therival said. "But he's been an assassin for longer than you've been alive."

"Malovici has been thwarting assassins for longer than you have, I suspect," Whitecrow told him. "It's not faith in myself that makes me absolutely certain that your friend cannot harm me. It's faith in my companions. Complete faith."

Something sad, almost haunted crossed Therival's face. "Well, I should go now," he told Whitecrow. Heavy resignation sounded in his voice.

"What will happen to you?"

"No doubt Aleksose will execute me. If I enter this encampment, and leave alive, it can have only one possible interpretation."

"He knows you're here." It wasn't really a question.

"Of course. I saw no one following me, naturally, but they were there. They're always there."

"Well, spend the night, then. If you're to die regardless, you just as well spend some time with your sister."

"What would I say to her? There's so much to be said—but none of it can be."

"You could start with, 'I'm sorry,' and progress from there. There's no reason anymore that she not know why you beat her. I'll tell her if you don't. She doesn't deserve to live with that memory the way she does now."

Therival sighed, a bone-deep, pained sigh. "You're right. But I fear she'll think I'm making excuses. That I think what I did was okay." 

"Actually, that's what she thinks now. Knowing the truth might just improve her view of you. Not that I think what you did was okay, either—but at least now I find I can't hate you for it." He rose from the creaking chair. "Maybe the same will be true for her."

He went and sat down at the fire, sensing the presence of both men behind him. When Therival invited his sister to go speak with him, Whitecrow told them, "Stay within sight of the fire. We won't be able to hear you, but I can protect you if I need to, as long as I can see you." The look in Therival's eyes told Whitecrow that the other man understood. It was Sunoree that Whitecrow meant to protect still—from Therival.

A story, however well told, does not create immediate trust. Whitecrow wanted to trust Therival, but he still didn't. The whole thing could have been fabricated for exactly that purpose. Yet, Whitecrow felt certain the man was sincere. But it didn't do to let down one's guard.

Whitecrow watched the two as he told Therival's story to the assembled. Malovici hovered within hearing distance, close enough to intervene should Sunoree need it. Whitecrow tensed when Sunoree began to cry, and Therival's arms went around her. Realizing he'd quit talking when all heads turned to watch, also, he went back to explaining their strange nocturnal visitor.

Therival and Sunoree came back to the fire. The group had stoked it back up to drive the chill away from the night. Sunoree came immediately to Whitecrow, and he felt a relief so profound that he had to bury his face in her hair for a moment. She was alive. She was still here. Her brother hadn't harmed or stolen her.

Therival's voice caused his head to jerk back up in surprise. "I made a decision. I'll tell you what I know. An attack on Thrall is planned. I'll tell you how they intend to execute it, and when. Perhaps me speaking up about it, if they know I have, will force them to cancel it."

"Why would you do that?" Whitecrow found it difficult to relay the doubt in Ferruk's voice.

"For Sunoree. For the courtesy you've done me by not killing me. Because I'm tired of death and killing. I don't know for sure. There are a lot of reasons… or maybe none. I just don't know anymore. I just want it all to be over, you know?"

A moment of silence, and then, "I think it's the right thing to do." Tiredness ran through his voice, and showed in every line of his body.

"Is there enough time for you to get some rest, and for us to go and visit Thrall, so you can give him the information in person?" At Therival's nod, Whitecrow shouted for an extra bedroll.

Therival pulled his cloak back on and followed Malovici after a skeptical look at Whitecrow. To which Whitecrow responded with, "He'll watch over you and protect you as if you were one of us. Or protect us from you, if that need should arise." Therival said nothing in response to Whitecrow's continued distrust. Unspoken between them was the knowledge that trust never came easily, especially between enemies.

And while they might not now be enemies, there was no certainty of that. And even if that came, there might still never be trust between them. For many years, Therival had stood between Whitecrow and his Inamorata.

It would not be easily forgiven, nor would it ever be forgotten.

**32.**

It was still dark when Whitecrow was roused from Sunoree's side by a persistent, low thumping on the door of the cabin. Sliding silently away from her, he walked to the door and clomped through it as quietly as a four hundred twenty five pound person with hooves could do.

Emerging into the cold desert night air, he glowered slightly. He'd been pulled from a warm bed, with a willing and beautiful woman. That, of course, was enough to make any red-blooded male mammal irritated in the extreme.

"What's up?" he asked as civilly as he could.

Malovici, of course, wasn't fooled. Nor was the far smaller man intimidated by the brawny bull towering over him. "I've been chatting with your buddy. He told me about the plot against Thrall, then tried to escape, so I tied him up." A gesture led Whitecrow's eyes towards Therival, who looked oddly piteous. He was kneeling, tied to a post.

"He tried to escape?" Whitecrow couldn't keep the surprise from his voice. Somehow, he'd come to trust the fellow, despite his wise precautions.

"He wanted me to kill 'im," Malovici said. "He's sure that they'll come for him, sooner rather than later, so that we can't torture the truth out of him."

Something in Malovici's voice caused Whitecrow to turn and look at the other man with a penetrating gaze. "Which gave you an idea?"

Malovici drew up to his full height, his shoulders shifting awkwardly. "Me? Have an idea? Surely you jest." Then, something that was probably a grin wracked his face. "He didn't plan very far. He wanted me to kill him. But they've got resurrection scrolls just like we do. Maybe more than we do. If we just kill him, they'll find a way to steal his body before the time's up. Then they'll just torture him, and he'll be no better off.

"So yeah, I have an idea…" his voice trailed off, smug and almost gleeful.

"Well, you just as well tell me, then," Whitecrow said with a sigh. Malovici agreed, and led him over near Therival.

"He just as well hear it, himself. He'll have to agree to it—or not."

And so, Whitecrow found himself listening to the most outrageous, bizarre plan he thought he'd ever heard. To make matters even stranger, Therival agreed almost eagerly to the peculiar idea.

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" When Therival stated that it seemed as good a plan as any other, Whitecrow shook his head. He couldn't believe anyone would agree to such a bizarre and perilous play. "Do you think you can be convincing when we torture you?"

"Yes." A shudder ran through Therival's body as he finished his statement, "I've heard enough people being tortured that I know perfectly well what it sounds like."

When the others rose, they discussed the plan at length. Sunoree hadn't risen yet, and they began to argue about whether or not to explain the plan to her. To explain to her ahead of time that it was what Therival actually wanted. Of them all, only Whitecrow argued for telling her.

"Her responses have to be authentic. If they're not, they'll keep coming until they've recovered him," Malovici argued.

Therival adamantly agreed, "You don't know how you'll respond in those circumstances, until you've actually lived it. She can't know ahead of time, or they'll recognize that she's acting. They'll never stop until they've recovered me if they suspect that she knew and expected it."

Sunoree's voice behind him almost made Whitecrow leap off of his bench. "If it will help Therival, don't tell me, SecCree."

Whitecrow stood up and clomped to her. "I have to tell you. If I don't, you'll leave. You'll never be able to abide me again. This will destroy us!" His voice was plaintive, anguished.

Her hands held his face, and her eyes bored into his. "Nothing can destroy us, unless we let it."

He fell to one knee before her. "You will never forgive me for this, Sunoree. Never! I know it!" They were almost eye-to-eye now, and Whitecrow knew his ears were drooping dramatically as he beseeched her. He was disgracing himself, but he didn't care. "If you don't know ahead of time, the terrible things I will do… and the time it will be before I can explain it all…" He choked on his own pain—even the thought of losing her was tearing her apart.

"I can better stand what you'll do than I could losing you," she told him. "Besides, I will have the knowledge that he wanted this, that he chose it. I know that he's doing it for my sake. I understand now. I hate that I must lose him again so quickly after I finally regained him in the deepest, most real way. But I have to honor his choice, and his need to atone for what he did to me, and to us."

Whitecrow tried to speak, but her hands held his muzzle, cutting him off. "No. I promise this, SecCree. I swear this to you. Until you explain all that has happened, I won't leave. No matter the horrible things you might do; I will remain for that time. But please, please do this for my brother and me." Her hands gentled, ran up his muzzle, across his cheeks, and tangled in his mane. "Will you, please?" Her eyes once more sought assurance in his as she gently rubbed around his pathetically drooping ears.

Defeated, he groaned, sinking forward against her belly. "I will," he said, muffled against her. "I will suffer your hate for as long as it takes, and pray that when I explain, you will love me again. I will do it, because I love you, and because it's so important to you."

He stood, and turned, glaring with undisguised hatred at Therival. "But I will never forgive _you_. And I shall enjoy what is to come. I will do it, and I will relish every moment of it." He was shouting now, venom and spite spewing from him in waves.

"I will destroy you!" he bellowed. "I will make what remains of your pathetic life into an absolute misery for this." He turned to Sunoree and winked. It was all he could do, as she stared at him in shocked surprise.

With a gesture, Nerissa grasped Sunoree by the arm, and led her away into Tensor's cabin. Tensor went with them, and the pair stayed there with her in the hours that followed. She was not allowed to leave the cabin… and her screaming and shouting was often heard from within, causing Whitecrow to wince.

She hadn't known what she had promised. It wasn't fair. But he would do his part. All of it, to the very last day. He couldn't tell her until it was certain that Therival's body could never be resurrected, even with the rare, costly scrolls that could bring a person back from the Underworld.

For her, he would do this. For her, and her alone. Because she loved her brother, and he loved her.

So, Whitecrow leaned forward and, in a fit of pique, snapped one of Therival's fingers. It was petty, and Whitecrow knew it. But if Therival was to torment Whitecrow, the least he could do was to experience at least a bit of genuine pain, himself. Therival's eyes, watering with pain, acknowledged the exchange. Whitecrow almost hated the man more for understanding.

Untying him, Whitecrow dragged Therival into the Command Tent. Then, with a group of priests surrounding him, casting pain suppression spells in succession, Whitecrow tortured Therival.

When he was battered into unconsciousness, Whitecrow dragged him back out of the tent, shouting for people to get mounted. He had news for Thrall, they were leaving within the hour. Then, he lifted Therival's head, and sliced his throat open. Blood curtained in a smooth spread, then ceased.

Whitecrow ignored the terrible, agonized shriek that rose from Tensor's cabin. He would see this through. What Therival wanted more than his own life, was for Sunoree to be safe. Whitecrow would see that through, whatever the cost.

He clung to one of his deepest beliefs. All murder is wrong, but not all killing is murder. He wasn't sure, though, which he had just done. The pain of the question niggled at him, even as the group mounted and left for Orgrimmar.

He could only pray to whatever deity would listen and take pity on him, that Sunoree would keep her promise and stay and wait for an explanation—no matter what. Picking up Therival's corpse, ignoring the blood that gushed from the wound once he was thrown over his shoulder, Whitecrow stepped through the portal to Orgrimmar, saluting the blood elf mage as he did so.

Once in Orgrimmar, he dumped Therival's corpse over the front of his kodo, and thundered towards Thrall. They had much to tell him. It was going to be a long day.

**33.**

"Why is it that I think I don't want to know why you come to me bearing gifts of dead Night Elves?" Thrall stood tall and imposing, glowering at the small group. Whitecrow shifted uncomfortably. Why was it that when Thrall was around, he felt like a calf again?

"It had to be done," Whitecrow told him, feeling like he'd just got caught kicking a worg puppy.

"Tell me," Thrall said shortly.

Laying the corpse down, Whitecrow began the tale. He tried to omit much detail about his and Sunoree's relationship, but somehow felt as if Thrall figured it all out anyway. He outlined what the group had agreed to, what they'd done, and what must yet be done.

Patiently, Thrall listened. He asked pertinent questions, and offered no opinions through the telling. No expression showed on his face as he sat, remote and cool, with his arms crossed.

When at last Whitecrow had finished the telling, Thrall sat forward, his chin resting on his fist. "So…" he drawled thoughtfully. "You made all these decisions without consulting me first. You killed a man, tortured him, without a word in my direction? Is that what I'm given to understand from this tale?"

Silence fell in the face of this question. Whitecrow's ears drooped. He blinked stupidly. "Yes, I suppose that's about the gist of it."

"Hmm. Yes." Thrall stood up. "I give you—everyone—a lot of freedom. I allow you to have initiative. I allow you to make choices and to make your own judgment calls. But torturing and killing an unarmed man without consulting me? Just who do you think you are?"

When no one answered, but they all stood contrite and shamed, he walked slowly back to this throne and sat down. "However…" a pregnant pause hung in the air for a while. "The idea has merit, and he consented to it. You performed the torture and the death in an honorable fashion." His voice grew hard again. "I would _appreciate_, in the future, however, if you would at least give a nod to consulting me before you do these things." His eyes skewered each person in the grouping, even those who hadn't had any direct contribution to the decision or the action.

"So, you may display his corpse at the gates for a period of eight weeks. It will be protected. This will be our gift to him for the invaluable information he gave before he died. We will do this to protect his sister, as he desired. I'm of two minds on it, given that he's a traitor to his own people. Yet, he did what he did for the right reasons. Thus, I believe that ultimately he was honorable, and as such, we will meet this dying request of his."

Thrall issued orders, and Therival's corpse was carried to the gates of Orgrimmar. Before the small entourage left to carry him there and hang him upside down to send a message to his people, Thrall said to Whitecrow, "It must be difficult to help the man who kept you from your lover for so long."

"Yes," Whitecrow acknowledged.

"You would have made a good orc," Thrall said, before he turned back to his daily business.

Whitecrow was surprised to find himself grinning as he moved after the others in order to complete the grisly business of displaying Therival's corpse at the gates. There could be left no question whatsoever that he'd been brutally tortured. Nor could the enemy be allowed to get the corpse back.

Therival would rot before the watchful eyes of the Orgrimmar guards, and thus Sunoree's future would be assured. But Whitecrow knew perfectly well that the war was far from over. The next eight weeks would be hell for Whitecrow.

It was just short of twelve hours before the Alliance arrived and tried to reclaim Therival. By then, all of the soldiers had moved from the Barrens to the gates of Orgrimmar.

**34.**

Whitecrow threw the ear. It landed just in front of Aleksose's cat. The beast, rail-thin and ragged, lunged for it. Clearly, it was drawn to the scent of blood, even old blood. Aleksose jerked the creature's reins, and the two struggled for a long moments. After a time, blood running down its heaving sides from the raking spurs, the cat subsided. His eyes still rolled wildly, but he stood still.

Aleksose's eyes met Whitecrow's. "So you really did kill him, huh? I wonder how that's going over with Sunoree." His wide smirk showed that he knew perfectly well how it was going over.

Whitecrow shrugged. "Women are fickle. She'll get over it. He beat her, she got over it. With time, she'll come to see why we had no choice in the matter."

"Well, we've come for the body, as is our right per treaty." Aleksose's cat lunged again for the tempting ear on the ground.

"The treaty allows for withholding of spy corpses until resurrection potential has passed. After that, we will pass the corpse on to the nearest living relative, as per the treaty." Whitecrow allowed a smug, self-satisfied expression to cross his face. "Which, it so happens, is Sunoree."

"Your trolls have worked some necromancy on him," Aleksose accused.

Whitecrow laughed out loud, the harsh sound causing the cat to once more twist and snarl. "We didn't need any necromancy, Aleksose. He squealed like a little girl under torture."

"I don't believe you," Aleksose snapped, his eyes glittering with unfeigned rage.

"Believe what you wish," Whitecrow told him, "it matters little to me."

"We're going to take his corpse," Aleksose said. "We'll find out what he told you."

"You'll not get it," Whitecrow's voice was patient, even slightly condescending, "but you're welcome to try."

Aleksose dismounted from his cat, and unlike the usual custom, did not dismiss it. Instead, he simply dropped the reins on the ground. Surprisingly, the creature didn't bolt, and Whitecrow realized that Aleksose had used the ancient methods of controlling his mount—methods now considered far to cruel and brutal to be used by any civilized person.

But of course, Whitecrow wasn't surprised at the fact that Aleksose would use such training methods on animals. His personality spoke clearly through everything Whitecrow had seen him do.

Whitecrow dismissed his kodo, waiting for Aleksose to make the first move. But custom dictated that he speak clearly, and leave no doubt.

"Leave now, Aleksose. Take your men and go. There are guards everywhere, and our contingent easily outnumbers yours. This is your last chance to escape throwing away lives for no reason."

Aleksose stood staring at him for a moment. Then, without warning, he jumped towards Whitecrow. A night elf warrior behind him snapped forward, slamming into Whitecrow as Aleksose immediately tried to maneuver behind him.

But already, Ferruk was there, slamming a mace into Aleksose's ribs so hard that the other man dropped to a knee for a moment. With a snarl, he rose again, rushing at Ferruk.

All around them, fights arose, small knots of men and women flashing weapons and grunting with exertion or crying out in pain.

Whitecrow found his warrior opponent to be well equipped and intelligent. But his healer was indisposed at the moment—Malovici was seeing to it. The warrior, too late, turned to save him, and Whitecrow finished him off with a brutal blow to the hamstring, and then a slash of his axe that bit through armor and deep into the man's neck.

Then Ferruk stepped away with a salute, leaving Whitecrow and Aleksose. A final heal engulfed Whitecrow, and then he knew that Nantu would leave him to his fight. It was now just between he and Aleksose.

Aleksose immediately tried to end the fight with a sudden flurry of blows. Whitecrow slammed his shield into the other man, stunning him and leaving him vulnerable. An underhanded slash of his mighty axe dug deeply into the flesh of a thigh, covered only in light leather armor.

But Aleksose returned the favor a moment later, and this time his flurry of slashes struck home, and Whitecrow bled from numerous cuts. It was now a matter of time for him, if Aleksose could land many more such strikes, Whitecrow would simply bleed to death.

He lifted the shield shifting back slightly, and then slammed Aleksose in the chin. The other man's head snapped back, blood spraying into the air like droplets of crimson rain. Pushing his advantage, Whitecrow slashed again, only the other man's nimble twist saving him from decapitation.

They fought in relative silence, neither responding to the painful blows and slashes of the other. Moments dragged by, punctuated by their grunts, the scent of blood and entrails and violent death, and the burning of the sun.

Aleksose managed to get the upper hand by the simple expedient of drawing shadows to himself and vanishing. It was only an instant, but well timed, for during that moment of slight disorientation, Whitecrow fumbled.

He stumbled forward, and felt a stinging blow to his back. He tumbled forward, landing heavily on his knees and one hand. Numbness spread through his lower body—easily Healed if he would allow it.

But no, this was between he and Aleksose. And Whitecrow was at the end of his endurance. His rage was draining away, leaving a blinding redness to cross his eyes. But he wasn't done yet, his powerful arms rolled him over, and he jerked the other man down on top of him.

With his arms pinned by Whitecrow's massive arms, Aleksose was unable to use his daggers to any noticeable effect. However, Whitecrow's strength was vanishing rapidly. He could only hold onto the man on top of him, as Aleksose tried everything he could think of, even slamming his face down full force onto Whitecrow's sensitive nose.

Even as pain blossomed in every part of his body, Whitecrow held on. For Sunoree, for his friends, and even for Therival, Whitecrow clung to Aleksose. He became a sort of anchor in the storm of agony, in fact. As he drove his head once more into Whitecrow's nose, it was as if this created an epicenter for the agony sheering and screaming through Whitecrow's entire being.

It was to this epicenter that he clung. A few moments and Aleksose would die, no longer able to breathe. Just a few moments longer.

In fact, Whitecrow was so focused on holding on for just another moment—just one more—that when all resistance ceased suddenly, it nearly set him adrift again.

He opened eyes swimming with pain and the tears he hadn't even noticed. A red haze covered them for a moment, until he blinked and it cleared. Aleksose's face was slack and shocked above him, and a new sort of resistance was felt...

Whitecrow's mind returned from the abyss of pain, and he realized what had happened. Everyone in the area was standing and staring in silent shock. No sounds of battle arose... not even distant sounds intruded on the nearly silent, shocked scene.

Another tug, and Whitecrow let go. Aleksose's cat dragged him off of Whitecrow. A Heal suddenly washed over him, and Whitecrow slowly staggered to his feet, to watch in horror as Aleksose's mount began to devour him.

"That's... wow." Whitecrow couldn't say anything else. He had been saved by the simple expedient of a supposedly mindless animal recognizing its opportunity to not only get revenge, but to eat as well.

Slowly, Whitecrow bent over and picked up one of Aleksose's daggers. He walked up to the cat, slowly and carefully. A snarl warned him off, but he placated the creature with gentle gestures and soft, mindless words.

Then he reached out and grasped the bridle on its head, and slashed it in a single motion. It fell away, and the creature returned to eating. Whitecrow slowly made his way to the cat's flank, and sliced the saddle away. As it slipped, the cat snarled and grasped its prize, jerking off towards the desert, as if to eat in peace.

Turning back, Whitecrow found himself face to face with a night elf druid. The druid spoke slowly, his Orcish heavily accented and barely understandable.

"Corpse. Take. Us. We. Corpse many ours."

"Take your corpses," Whitecrow told the man in his own language, "and be quick about it. You'll have to go get that one on your own, though." He gestured after the vanishing cat.

"I think the cat can keep it," the other man said.

Something in his demeanor and the look in his eye made Whitecrow grin. The druid turned away and the night elves and their few human companions began to gather the dead and drag them away through a portal. Their dead were few, but their injured were many, and Whitecrow gestured as one of the orcs stepped forward to stop them from retrieving their wounded.

"Let them take them. It's in the war laws," he told the orc.

"Garrosh wouldn't like that," the orc snapped at Whitecrow, his fists clenched as if to back up his decision with them.

Groll slammed his fist into the other man's jaw with near neck-snapping force, the other landing so hard on the ground that his breath grunted from in involuntarily. "Garrosh isn't the Warchief." Rage colored his face as he glared down at the fallen man.

"He will be, and when he is, we will slaughter our enemies like dogs!"

"When we lose our honor," Groll said, his voice low and menacing, "then we sacrifice everything that makes us worthwhile as people. And you wouldn't only lose your honor, but you would gladly abdicate it, for such paltry things as vengeance and hate." He spat on the other man and turned away.

The night elves were finished gathering their dead and wounded. Before stepping into the ring of the portal, the druid turned one more time to Whitecrow, "I understand that you have an outpost where your interracial relationships are less questioned?"

"Yes," Whitecrow told him. "And we are the ones who will fight and die to defend it, if your people should decide to visit it."

"Oh, I'd like to visit it," Kalandan said, "but not to fight with you or yours." His eyes sparkled and a strange gleam lit his eyes as he stepped into the portal and left only the faint image of Darnassus lingering in the air.

Whitecrow's body lagged then. A bone deep weariness spread through him. He met Groll's eyes. "Strange times." Groll nodded grimly. It was a victory, Whitecrow knew, but it was a strange and empty one.

And now... now he had to go confront his Inamorata.

**35.**

They prepared to ride out, Malovici dragging the wheeled gurney prepared for Therival's corpse behind his mount with a makeshift harness. As he approached the group, they were struck strongly by the odor of carrion.

Turning away, Whitecrow found himself vomiting violently. He was used to the terrible stench of battle, but this was altogether different. "Fuck, Malovici," he said after he cleaned his muzzle off, "get that thing away from us. Ride away from us," he continued.

"And downwind," Groll grunted. "Really, really downwind."

Malovici shrugged, "I don't notice a thing."

"Fuck, that shit stinks!" Whitecrow wretched again, relieving himself entirely of breakfast the second time. His mount dodged the dripping mess as Whitecrow pulled a linen out of his pack and wiped his muzzle for the second time.

When he kicked the beast to get it going, it was all too willing to set off at a brisk, rolling gallop. The others followed suit, and Malovici trailed behind with the stinking, rotting corpse.

Whitecrow was utterly miserable by this point. Weary still, from the tips of his horns to the bottom of his hooves, his stomach was disturbed and he was stressed out. He rode with his head drooping and his ears turned back.

Ferruk pulled up beside him some time after they'd left Orgrimmar. "You don't look so good, man. I think I can see that your color is off, right through your fur."

"I may never get her back," Whitecrow said. "I killed her brother."

Ferruk sighed. "It's the price we all pay for love. You did what you could to save her, to protect her, to be there for her. The strange thing about love is that we'd rather see them live and hate us, than see them hurt and killed."

Whitecrow grunted in reply. What could he say? He couldn't deny it.

"But I think when it's all done and said, she'll understand. She strikes me as the intelligent sort," Ferruk attempted a reassuring tone, but Whitecrow's keen hearing heard the strain behind it. "She's a remarkable woman. She had the strength and the fortitude to love you, no matter who told her that you were her enemy. She defied her brother—a powerful man, by any measure—in order to come to you, even years later. Personally, I wouldn't write her off just yet."

Whitecrow stared at the other man in surprise. "I guess I hadn't thought of it that way. Of course, that also means she might just try to kill me where I stand. She's got the courage and strength for that, too." It was a bleak thought.

"Well, if she does, I promise we won't give you 'The Therival Treatment'," Ferruk said, his face devoid of all expression—too devoid.

Whitecrow couldn't help but laugh. "I wouldn't volunteer for that, either. The man's crazy."

"Crazy like a hecklefang," Ferruk said. "It was genius, really, when you think about it."

"Well, it was more Malo's idea," Whitecrow allowed.

"Not most of it," Ferruk reminded him.

"True," Whitecrow said. "But I don't know how I'll ever convince her of that."

"Then don't," Ferruk told him. "Let someone else convince her."

Whitecrow stared at Ferruk in surprise. "You're a genius, my friend, a genius," he told his buddy.

Ferruk smirked, "I know, man, I know."

The tiredness seemed to have faded some, as if some benevolent deity had reached down and combed some of it away. Whitecrow had a plan. And it was a perfect plan. Or almost perfect, who knew how Sunoree would take it?

The rest of the ride back passed in companionable silence. Each of them were eager to return for their own reasons, except Nantu, who spent her time searching for herbs. The sun beat down on them, heating them all and creating a sort of comforting weariness.

When they arrived, it was late evening, the shadows already stretching deeply across the land. The first nips of the evening chill were chasing around exposed flesh, and the sounds coming from the now-enclosed encampment carried far across the hushed landscape.

A bonfire burned in the central pit already, winking at them through the slats of the wall surrounding it. It was a homey sight, one that picked up the feet of even their tired mounts. Food and water and rest loomed ahead, and they all knew it—man and beast.

Drawing back, Whitecrow waited for Malovici, his hand holding a linen soaked in a Sungrass concoction Nantu had made to cut the smell against his muzzle. Still, he smelled the carrion quite strongly—his sense of smell being very developed.

"How long do you think it'll take to take care of the corpse?"

"Not long," Malovici said. "Not long enough for hanky panky. Though you don't look very primed up for hanky panky for a guy just coming back to his lover after weeks of abstaining."

"I'm nervous," Whitecrow admitted. "I did torture and kill her brother." He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. "That could really be a low point in our relationship."

"Mitigating circumstances, W.C. We've been at war for a long time, you'd think she'd be prepared for something like that."

"For her brother to die, sure. For her lover to be the one to kill him? I doubt that very much," Whitecrow allowed skepticism to layer his voice.

"Score W.C.," Malovici gave the equivalent of a grin. It was a joking reference to their ongoing banter, each allowing the other a 'score' if they made an excellent and irrefutable point.

Whitecrow sighed, though, not into the game this evening. "We'll be there soon. Is fifteen minutes long enough?"

"Probably too long. I don't think you should give it more than five. Retrieval is going to take a while."

"Okay, fair enough," Whitecrow said. Then he kicked his mount forward and rushed towards the encampment. The others picked up his enthusiasm and plunged ahead with him, until it looked like a midnight race across the desert.

They arrived and jockeyed for the entrance, until they were all through and heading rapidly in different directions. The others were as eager to find their own mates as Whitecrow was to find Sunoree.

He headed for Tensor's cabin, but found it now contained its proper occupant. Tensor pointed Whitecrow to another cabin, new and set back into the woods. It was nearly obscured, blending almost perfectly with its surroundings. One might easily miss it, did they not know it was there. How perfectly it fit his Sunoree, he thought as he headed that way.

His step was light as he headed towards the cabin, hoping she would be there and he wouldn't have to go searching for her. Well, as light as an 800 pound man in heavy plate armor and clomping around on massive hooves could be, that is.

When he knocked on the door, thinking it only appropriate given all that had happened, he heard her murmuring voice from the other side inviting him in. He opened the door and stepped inside. She was even more beautiful than he had remembered. Perhaps she got more beautiful every time he saw her.

He cleared his throat. She stepped towards him. He felt his belly clench. "Sunoree, I—"

Her finger touched his lips, the softest of butterfly wing brushes. "I think I understand, SecCree," she told him softly. "I was angry at first, but I know my brother. Therival talked you into it—"

This time it was his turn to touch her lightly on the lips. He let his finger linger there just a moment, before he said, "There isn't time for that now. There's something important that we must do first. I'm sorry, you'll understand it all soon.

"Please get into some warm, outdoor clothes, and meet me at the fire pit."

Sunoree stared at him for a moment, disappointment clear in the drooping of her ears and the slowly vanishing smile on her lilac face.'

"Trust me just one more time, please," Whitecrow pleaded.

She nodded, and he slipped out the door. He clomped towards the fire, hope in his heart. She wasn't mad, at least. She was trying to understand. It was hopeful, very hopeful. But when she saw what waited her at the fire, would she be as forgiving?

When he reached the fire pit, he looked at the undead man sitting there. "It's done, I see." When the other man nodded, Whitecrow asked, "How does it feel?"

Glowing golden orbs met his eyes, a look both direct and assessing. "It feels like relief," Therival said.


	7. Chapter 7

**36.**

"Never!" Sunoree's face was flushed a tender rose, and Whitecrow fought not to be distracted by the vivid heightening of her beauty as her eyes flashed and her ears literally quivered with her rage. "He would never agree to this!"

Therival's quiet voice groaned from behind Sunoree as he stood and said, in a voice that groaned like old oaks on a winter night, "I chose it for you, Sunoree."

Sunoree whirled, cloak billowing in the firelight, the buckles on her leather chestpiece glittering like flashing daggers. "Never! My brother would never do this! Ever! For any reason, for anyone!"

"I did. I did it for you, and for myself."

"No. I don't believe it. I won't believe it!"

"Sunoree," Whitecrow interrupted, fearful of angering her further, but focused on the task at hand. "No matter the reasoning for this, if you want him to remember you, to remember life in Darnassus, you must talk to him about it. You must remind him, or all of his memories will be lost. And there isn't much time—"

"I don't care. I won't participate in this. This is an abomination! It's against everything that we believe in. Why would he willingly do such a thing? It goes against Nature herself! No," she said as she turned away again, her voice dripping with barely latent fury, "I won't help him. I won't help you. I cannot support such a thing, under any circumstances."

As she turned to stalk from the fire pit, Therival stopped her. "Please," he said to her. They stood staring at each other for a moment.

Then Sunoree leaned towards him, looking at him, and said slowly and carefully, "When I look at you, all I see is the enemy. An enemy to all that I hold most dear, and sacred. I hate you." She kept walking.

She had gotten far enough away that she was only the edge of a cloak vanishing into the darkness, when Therival said, "I wanted to be with you, to protect you. If I didn't do this, I would have been tortured for real by Aleksose. And he would never have stopped until he got you and tortured you, too."

Sunoree stopped, the barest flutter of her cloak in the breeze betraying her location. Abruptly, she turned around and strode back to him. Once more leaning towards him, she stared him in the face, "You should have stayed dead."

The instant that the last word fell into the air around them, her face went suddenly pale, as if she realized what she had just said.

"Therival, I..." She faltered, standing up and running a hand down her face, a gesture so much like Whitecrow's familiar gesture that he stared at her in surprise. But he said nothing, not wanting to disrupt the tableau in front of him.

"Talk to me, Sunoree. That's all I ask. I won't ask you to love me, but please let me remember," Therival said. His now-ancient voice held an appeal, a desperate question, a dying hope.

With a sigh, Sunoree sat down, though she sat down on a log away from him. "I will help you remember, but I can't do more than that. I can't see you as my brother. He's dead to me, and always will be."

"I understand. I would feel the same, I think," Therival told her grimly.

Quietly, as they began to talk in low voices, Whitecrow got up and left the fire. Weariness settled into him again, but he went to the edge of the water anyway. The desert air was cool and calm and quiet. Dampness hung, rising from the water that was now warmer than the cold night air around it. The scent of flowers was thick and deep.

"That went better than expected," Malovici said from the dark shadows of a tree. Golden orbs met Whitecrow's eyes, glittering like wicked stars in the darkness.

Whitecrow grunted, then said, "Yeah, I'm still alive."

"For now," Malovici said.

Whitecrow didn't need to see him to know he was smirking. He could hear it in the other man's voice. He sighed and turned to look out at the sparkling trail the moon left on the water.

"She'll come around. After everything you two have been though, it would be insane for her not to."

"Poor return on her investment, huh?" Whitecrow was only half joking. He knew Malovici well.

Whitecrow's heart almost skipped a beat when he heard Malovici's voice come softly from the darkness, "You and Therival are all she has left."

Whitecrow turned to stare into the darkness, but saw nothing. Even the bright orbs of Malovici's eyes were hooded, barely visible. Twin sparks hiding in the gloom. A slow frisson crept down Whitecrow's back, causing the hair on the back of his neck and at the base of his spine to try to rise. Sympathy and understanding from Malovici was the last thing he had expected.

"And from her point of view, we have betrayed her."

"Yes. She sees it that way for now. But sometimes, when time passes, we come to accept what only a short time before, would have been utterly unthinkable."

Whitecrow stared into the darkness again. "I suppose you're right, in some cases."

"In more cases than you would think." Malovici said no more, leaving behind him only the sound of soft, nearly silent footsteps.

Whitecrow's mind churned. He felt that something profound had just been disclosed by his friend, but he couldn't quite figure out what. Malovici had always seemed content, even pleased to be an Undead. Perhaps it had not always been that way for him, though.

And what of Sunoree and Therival? Would Therival come to regret his decision? Would Sunoree hate him forever? Would she hate both of them forever?

He turned and stared at them, sitting the pool of light the fire threw. Therival sat poking at the fire with a stick, and Sunoree was speaking avidly. She laughed, and Therival turned to look at her. He said something, and then shook his head, as if chagrined or amused.

Sighing, he decided to rest where he was. Malovici would watch out for him, since he never slept.

And who knew what kind of reception he would get the next day, at Sunoree's cabin?

**37.**

He was totally out of his element. There was simply no other way to see it. He was clueless, and he felt like a gigantic side of meat, sitting there and doing nothing. Worse than that, he felt helpless.

He patted Sunoree on the back again, in what he hoped was a reassuring and kind gesture. He hadn't dealt with many crying women in his day. He mostly just carried on about his life. Hunt, fight, live, grab his ass and hold on. Sometimes kiss it good-bye, when things got really tough.

But this was scarier in its own way than looking death in the face. He'd even fallen from a lift in the Howling Fjord once. Some part of him rather longed to be back in that moment, free-falling out into space as the faces of his friends vanished above him.

He'd felt helpless then, too. But at that time, it had just been his life at stake, not the heart of a beautiful woman. Strange how love changed one's priorities.

So Whitecrow held Sunoree, and patted her again, awkwardly and without knowing what else to do. Her sobs were muffled against his chest, the tears soaking into his fur. The cold pre-dawn air circulated there, contrasting starkly with the heat of her body, pressed against his and shaking as another sob wracked her.

The sun was topping the horizon, a soft spot of golden, reddish light when Sunoree finally subsided to small hiccups. Whitecrow lay silently with her, allowing the calls of birds, her soft hiccupping sobs, and the lapping of the water on the shore to be the only sounds around them.

Finally, she spoke, and when she did, it was a torrent of confused accusations mingled with sorrowful, regretful, and even agonized questions.

"Why would he do that?

"You people, you convinced him to do this!

"What am I going to do?

"My brother is dead. Dead! He would never do this, never!

"How could you let him do this? You know this is wrong! You would never do this, how could you let him?"

The litany of questions and anger and threats marched past faster than Whitecrow could even begin to respond to any one of them. It ended abruptly on the heels of a plaintive, sorrowful, "Why, Therival, why?"

Then she was crying again, and Whitecrow was confounded. He had expected to argue, to fight, to have to defend himself and even Therival. But he didn't know how to confront this.

She wasn't done yet, though. Her tears subsided faster this time, and she once more spoke into his shoulder, her voice dampened by his fur and his bulk. "I missed you."

"You sent me away," Whitecrow said.

"You killed my brother, and tortured him," she told him, her voice rising dangerously.

But, on the up side, from Whitecrow's point of view, was that at least he knew how to deal with anger. As his mentor had always told him, "When in doubt, placate."

Little did Whitecrow realize... his mentor had been an ace at magic, but not so hot with the ladies.

"He couldn't feel a thing. We used pain suppression and shields."

"What the hell is the matter with you? Do you think that makes it okay to mutilate, kill, and then turn someone into an abomination?" Sunoree's head and snapped up, and she was glowering at him fiercely. She pushed away and knelt beside him.

"Do you think that as long as the person doesn't feel becoming a monster, it's fine to turn him into one? Did you think that he'd be happy that way? A man who has lived for more years than you and your parents combined, in the laws of nature... you think you can just kill and maim and desecrate him, and it's all okay?"

Whitecrow, foolishly, stuck to his mentor's advice, "But Sunoree, it's what he wanted. He jumped at the chance!"

Sunoree's voice was rising even further, until Whitecrow's ears were clamped back against his head in defense against what now nearly amounted to shrieking, "He would NEVER! Never, I say, never!"

Sitting up now, Whitecrow told her, "Yeah, you mentioned that before."

"You! You... you... ASS!" She was seriously shrieking now. "How DARE you? How dare you take that tone with me? You've killed my brother! And in return gave me this... this... this THING!"

Whitecrow felt like a chastised child. His ears were still pasted to the side of his head, which was now dropped against his chest. He blinked as he looked at her, his hands pleading at his sides. "It wasn't my idea!"

As Sunoree continued to shout at Whitecrow, Ferruk stepped up to Groll. "You look like the worg that got the rabbit," he told Groll.

Groll only grinned larger. "You should have seen all the shit I got when Nerissa handed me my ass at the inn in Vengeance Landing. Now it's my turn."

The pair laughed and went to make breakfast at the central fire. They made enough for Whitecrow and Sunoree, too—though they doubted either would eat any of it for several hours, if ever.

**38.**

"Crazy. She's completely crazy," Whitecrow told Ferruk and Groll.

For his part, Groll just grunted and chuckled.

Ferruk, though, asked, "How so?"

"I don't understand a word she says when she's mad. First, it's 'I don't ever want to look at you again!' But then, it's, 'Where do you think you're going? Don't walk away from me when I talk to you!'" He ran a hand down his nose, sighing heavily. "She follows this up with, 'Just go!' and when I don't, 'Why are you still here?' So I turn around to leave, so then it's all; 'Oh no! No. You're not getting out of it that easy, mister!' How the hell am I supposed to make heads or tails out of anything she says!"

The last came almost as a plaintive plea to the other two men. Which, to the chagrin of the unfortunate Whitecrow, only elicited hoots of laughter from the pair.

"Of course she's crazy," Malovici told Whitecrow. "All of the living are batshit insane. What did you expect?"

"I've never seen him like this before," Ferruk told Groll.

"What, he's never gotten his tail in a knot over a woman before? He doesn't look like a calf to me," Groll replied.

"If not for the blue chick, he'd be a virgin," Ferruk told him.

"A virgin?" Both orcs dissolved with laughter at that point. Groll stood up and made horns with his hands, "For sale, cheap, a virgin bull, fresh from the plains! Only twenty-eight years old!"

At their amusement, Whitecrow's ears slowly began to creep back against his head. Soon they were tucked angrily against him, his nostrils flaring.

Noticing it, Groll sat down and clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, man, we're just having fun. You're probably the only one-woman man I've ever met in my life. Gotta admit you're a bit of an oddity."

He watched Whitecrow, and when his ears began to relax, told him, "Seriously, though, Ferruk could talk to her for you. Try to help her understand why we did what we did with Therival."

"Damn, man, what the fuck are you volunteering me for? I ain't gettin' in the middle of this. No way, no how."

"Come on, Ferruk. Someone's got to do it. I don't know Whitecrow, you do. The only other alternative is the dead guy." Everyone looked at Malovici, who grinned.

"I would be gentle, honest," he said with a leer.

Ferruk blinked, then shook his head. "Deities damn it all." Then he got up, picked up some of the remaining breakfast, and clomped off towards Sunoree's cabin.

"This should go well," said Groll cheerfully. At Whitecrow's withering look, he simply grinned larger and said, "Come on, man, it can't get worse!"

He couldn't deny that, so Whitecrow merely sighed heavily. Somehow, he was afraid that it could, indeed, get worse.

A roaring bellow from Ferruk interrupted their silence, though. Immediately, the sleepy, quiet morning camp exploded with movement. Lumps on the ground proved to seasoned soldiers erupting from bedrolls. Cabin doors slammed open and people in mid-dress flowed out like water.

Even as the camp milled with orcs and trolls, blood elves and tauren, Ferruk charged across the small encampment towards the shocked men at the fire.

"She's gone! And there's signs of a struggle!"

Ferruk's words galvanized Whitecrow immediately. Without heed of the uselessness of the gesture, Whitecrow jerked the sword and the shield into his hands, rushing with all haste towards the small, tucked-away cabin.

Loping beside him came Malovici and Therival. Hot on his heels was Groll, and rushing across the encampment came Nerissa.

"She's been taken," Whitecrow said.

One of the camp's Hunters, an orc of long acquaintance with Groll, said, "Night elves. Look at the tracks here. She's fighting, too. Looks like they didn't catch her by surprise as much as they wanted to, but it's clear they must have silenced her. Baruke was patrolling this area last night, and he's one of the best."

"Well, he wasn't fucking good enough, was he," Whitecrow snarled.

Less than ten minutes later, when they found the unfortunate Baruke, Whitecrow sat quietly beside the other man for long moments. "I'm sorry," he told the Hunter who was tracking for them.

It was clear that Baruke had put up an intense fight. He was still lingering, clinging to life, but only by the barest thread. Had they found him even a few minutes later, it would have been too late. And so extensive were his injuries that, veterans though they were, most of them were shocked and sickened by it.

Even once he was Healed by Ferruk, he sat leaning heavily against a tree, his warm brown skin looking pale and ghostly. He tried to stand, but wobbled uncertainly. Ferruk pushed him back down again, leaving him sitting against the tree once more.

Even Malovici looked grim and deeply concerned. His sewing stayed in its pouch, and he crouched beside the other man, still and quiet. He seemed to melt into the shadows, a grim reminder that he not only carried death with him, but also knew death intimately.

His grimness seemed to drop a stone into Whitecrow's gut. As Baruke confirmed the earlier assertion of night elves, the stone got larger and heavier.

"I'm going with you," Baruke said. "I'm going to bring that barbaric son of a whore down, if I die trying."

"You're not fit to go," Whitecrow said, his voice flat, emotionless, and cold. He couldn't afford to bring anyone with him that wasn't fit for the fight.

"I'm fit to ride," the other retorted, his eyes narrowed in rage, "and by the time we catch up to those fuckers, I'll be more than fit to fight."

They stared at each other in challenge for long moments, until Whitecrow finally said, "Fine. But if you're not in peak shape at that point, you're getting the fuck out of there and letting someone more fit fight."

"Fair enough," the orc grunted, and rose with only slightly more steady feet.

Efficiency is the way in a war camp. Everything in life is done with minimal fuss, and people are always prepared to move at a moment's notice. So it was a matter of minutes, rather than hours, before the mass of the encampment was ready to ride. Twenty-five strong, they set out in pursuit of Sunoree.

With Aleksose gone, and Therival's memory mostly erased except for family memories, no one knew who might have taken her.

But they did know one thing for certain: whoever it was, was not going to keep her.

**39.**

The dust was hurting his nostrils. The argument with Sunoree was hurting his soul. His chest ached with dust and fear. His mind boiled with worry and wonder. Who had taken her? Why?

More than that, he wondered if she would even want him to rescue her. Her final words echoed in his head, "I wish I'd never met you. You've taken me away from my home. You've taken away all of my friends. You've destroyed my family. Leave me alone. I don't want to see you, I don't want to hear from you."

He replayed the words over and over again, hoping for some hope from them. But no matter how many times he tried to make them say something else, they stubbornly refused to budge. And he knew beyond all doubt that, from her perspective, it was true.

What he'd done to her wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that to be together, she had to lose everything. He knew that some of it wasn't his fault. It was fate, and not he, who had made their people be on opposite sides of a terrible war.

But much of it was his fault. And he'd wanted it for years. He'd hoped for it, dreamed of it, longed for it. All without ever considering the ramifications for Sunoree. Now he'd gotten what he wanted, and it was nothing at all like he'd imagined.

His self-loathing was interrupted abruptly by Baruke. "The tracker has reported in. They've gone straight into Darnassus."

"Are you sure?"

"No doubt of it. They got on the boat, and that means only one place left for them to go."

"We'll need more personnel."

Soon, they arrived at Darkshore. There, their ranks swelled to forty persons in all. Before they went into the town, though, Whitecrow gave firm, adamant instructions.

"We will incapacitate all of them that resist. There will be absolutely no deaths. If you cannot restrain yourself from killing, leave now. If you are here out of hate or on a vendetta, leave now. Our purpose here is to rescue Sunoree.

"I won't have deaths on her conscience. There has been enough killing of her people because of her choice to be with me. There will be none this day. However furious you may be, however many losses you have suffered, take it out on them by beating them to within an inch of their lives. I promise you that I will be doing so.

"But if you can't control yourself and you feel compelled to kill, leave now. If Sunoree is dead, I won't have her memory sullied in that way. If she's alive, I won't make her live with being the reason her people were massacred.

"Let's get this over with."

A roaring shout led the way, so loud that some on the sundered remains of Outland may well have heard it, had they been listening keenly. The huge group pushed through the small, ramshackle holdings and onto the boat landing. Once there, the guards there sheathed their weapons and put up their hands, "We have no wish to die today." No one bothered to tell them that they wouldn't have, anyway.

Within hours, they stood around the glowing, magical portal that would take them into the streets of Darnassus, the heart of Night Elf society.

"There may be retaliation," Groll told him grimly.

"I hope there is," Whitecrow said.

Groll blinked at him in surprise. "Why's that?"

"Because if they come for us, then I have no good cause to stay my hand. I will kill them all for this."

"You've restored my faith in you, old boy," Ferruk said with a feral grin.

With a tight grin in response, Whitecrow lifted a fist towards the sky. At this signal, soldiers poured into the blue portal.

The battle had begun.

**40.**

The city of Darnassus sprawled around them as they stepped through the portal into the depths of the ancient tree, Teldrassil. A natural river ran through it, making it look as if the city had simply been plunked on the banks of it by some massive, unseen hand.

The large group of Horde soldiers scuffled briefly with the few guards that were there, the sounds of fighting breaking the placid quiet of the now nearly abandoned city. Quiet reigned again soon, though, the Darnassian guards disabled on the ground making no sound.

"Where would be the most likely place for them to hold her?" Whitecrow asked Groll.

Groll looked at him studiously. "You gave no thought to that before now?"

Whitecrow shifted uncomfortably. "Not particularly, no."

Groll sighed, then shifted and gestured. Baruke came forward, his worg mount nearly silent on his padded feet.

"Can you find any trace of her here at all?"

"Too many people. Too much going on here. It would be like trying to find a lost wedding ring amidst the debris of the twisting nether." Baruke told him, his words clipped and sharp.

"I was afraid of that. I suppose we are going to end up going from building to—"

Malovici cut him off mid-sentence. "I saw something strange. I think we ought to check it out. May not lead where we want to be, but it's well worth the look, all things considered."

The others crowded closer. Malovici continued to sew part of his thigh, even while sitting on his mount, seeming uninterested or even distracted.

"Spit it out, man," Whitecrow finally snapped, his ears snug against his head with irritation.

"I saw a female blood elf. Some sort of caster, I believe. She seems to be trying to find a way into the temple, without tangling with the guards." He dropped this verbal bomb with complete aplomb, not once pausing in his reattachment of his rotted flesh.

"What would a blood elf be doing sneaking around here?" Whitecrow asked.

"Great question," Malovici said. "Real glad you thought of it. Not an obvious question, either." His voice creaked with irony.

"Fuck you," Whitecrow told him. "Not fucking funny."

"I'm laughing," Malovici told him, completely deadpan. Then he looked up, "On the inside."

Someone snickered, but subsided when Whitecrow's head snapped in that general direction.

"Go check it out," Whitecrow told Malovici. "I know you would anyway."

"Of course," Malovici told him. Not a trace of smugness flickered in his voice- a testament to his age and self-control.

The rest of them followed slowly. Malovici was able to creep and sneak past guards and wandering merchants. But a mass of soldiers was at best impossible to hide. And soon, they knew, more trouble would be on the way. Rare was the day you could march right into a capital city and not be met with real resistance.

They were nearing the temple—Whitecrow having decided it was as good a place to search as any—when Malovici returned to them. Thrown over his shoulder was a Sin'Dorei priestess.

"Caught her easily enough," Malovici said. "Never saw me coming."

Whitecrow heaved a sigh. "You didn't even try to talk to her at all, you just abducted her?" At what passed for a Malovici grin, he shook his head. "Abduct first, ask questions later, huh?"

"Would you talk to me, if you didn't know me?"

Whitecrow and Ferruk grinned at each other. "Point for you, man. Point for you."

They then revived one angry, struggling blond blood elf woman.

"Calm down," Whitecrow told her. "He was supposed to talk to you, not knock you out and tie you up. I'm really sorry. We're not here to do you any harm." When she calmed her eyes still wary, he untied her.

Pulling the gag out of her mouth, she said, "I need to get back! I must find a way into the temple!"

Whitecrow squatted beside her. "Why?"

She looked about to speak, then suddenly clammed up. Her mouth made a thin, protesting line, and she looked around, obviously retreating from them all.

Whitecrow sighed and gestured the others away. When they'd moved just out of earshot, he explained his situation to her, briefly; including the fact that his Sunoree was a night elf.

"That's why I'm here, too," she told him, in a voice barely above a whisper. As if someone might overhear her despite having moved away. "They took Kalandan. He was at some sort of fight in Orgrimmar. We were together afterwards, but he was leaving to get some food, when I heard fighting. His own people attacked him and took him. I've been searching for him since, and I've found him. They're holding him at the temple."

Her face tightened up into a mask of pain. "I think he finally talked, because they quit torturing him. A while ago, they brought in a woman—a night elf. I think it's probably your woman."

An agonized frisson ran down his back and made the fur all over his body stand upright. "They tortured him?"

"Yes," she said weakly, and turned and vomited.

Overcome with a deep feeling of shared pain, Whitecrow gathered her into his arms and let her cry. With a gesture, he called the others over. While she wept against his shoulder, he filled the others in. It was a brief, quick explanation, and the others were shortly mounted.

"We'll rescue him as we rescue Sunoree," Whitecrow told her. "But we need to go now. We can't wait."

She nodded, and immediately pulled herself together. He admired her courage and her fortitude. She mounted and said tersely, "I'm going with you."

Fortunately, this time Malovici didn't trouble himself to make smartass comments about the obviousness of the statement.

The group turned again towards the temple. It was about to be under siege by a very angry group of Horde soldiers. Whatever lay before them, they would face it together.

And at the end of it, Whitecrow vowed, he would rescue Sunoree, or he would be dead. There would be no compromises, no middle ground. And this time, no more waiting.

Indeed, no more waiting.

He signaled the loosely formed phalanx of soldiers towards whatever fate awaited them.

**41.**

They were cut off from the rest. Men and women were dying, their blood running across the floor of the temple in rivulets of pain and loss. They'd walked willingly into a trap. Even as Baruke tried to warn him, Whitecrow had forged forward.

Right into a nest of vipers.

The temple had been filled with soldiers. They swarmed from above, and filled the echoing building with the sounds of metal pinging off of metal, the grunts of battle, and the screams of the dying.

Forgotten was his noble goal of not killing anyone. It was a battle for his very life, and the life of the men and women who had accompanied him.

He managed to catch Groll's eye from across the expanse of stone and grass that comprised the floor of the temple. He mouthed, simply, "Go." Groll shook his head stubbornly, his face set in a mask of concentration. For a moment he was distracted, as was Whitecrow. When their eyes met again, Whitecrow's scowl over-wrote Groll's militant obstinancy.

Reluctantly, and with a clearly mutinous glare, he pumped his arm in the 'Retreat' signal. At Whitecrow's nod, he shook his head, anger clear in his face.

Whitecrow understood all too well. No one wanted to retreat. But there was no sense in more deaths. While their eyes warred a moment longer, Whitecrow slashed the night elf in front of him. Finally relenting, Groll turned and stepped into the portal that would carry him to safety behind the others.

Then Whitecrow and Baruke were surrounded. Swords, bows, daggers... a wall of weapons surrounded them. Whitecrow considered for a moment, and then his axe arced in a last moment of rebellion and rage. Biting deeply, it sank into the belly of the man in front of him. With a shriek, the man buckled forward, blood and entrails preceding him.

Agony burst through Whitecrow's arm, and he stared in surprise at the bone sticking out of it, the hand dangling limply beneath it. He sank to his knees, staring in shock at the mass of blood on the ground—some of it his.

Then, he felt a cooling, gentle touch... followed by agony screaming down his arm. He looked up to see the face of an uncommonly beautiful night elf woman. "Hush," she said as an unconscious sound of pain grunted between his teeth. "I can take your pain away. I can heal you." Then the wound sealed, and the pain was mercifully gone.

She stood up then. "Bring them up to my sanctuary."

Whitecrow found himself dragged up the stairs and to a place obviously designed for torture. There was Sunoree, tied against the wall. She slumped forward in her bonds, obviously unconscious. Not far from her, the druid who had spoken with him at the portal away from Orgrimmar hung, also unconscious. Whitecrow guessed that this was Kalandan, as there was no one else there.

"You," the woman said, nearly spitting the words at him, "I thought we killed you, orc." The last word came out as an epithet.

Whitecrow translated to him, and back to her: "You tried," Baruke said, "but you failed, bitch."

Whitecrow growled against the gag that had been forced into his mouth as the woman began to beat the bound Hunter. Struggling and snarling, he glared at her as she turned back to him once Baruke had lost consciousness. It had taken a long time, and she'd had to Heal her hands several times.

"Ah, SecCree," she said. She smiled again, transforming into almost angelic beauty. She tilted her head and ran her hand down the side of his face, chuckling as he jerked away. "Soon, you will come to call me 'Mistress', SecCree. You will love me. You will worship me." She smiled like an indulgent mother as he snarled again against the dry gag. "Oh, you will. You will. Believe me. And when you do. Well, then I will destroy you, as you destroyed the man I love."

She picked a whip up from a table, and walked back to him. Running the short riding crop down his chest, she said, "You see, Aleksose taught me everything about pain. About pain, and about real love. About sacrifice, and devotion. And the rewards of both."

Turning away, she tapped the whip against her leg, before looking over her shoulder at him. "And now I will teach you. I will teach you these things while Sunoree watches. Because he lusted after her. She stole his love, his desire, and then you killed him. So you will suffer together. She will suffer as she watches you grovel before me and worship me. You will suffer as you long every day for the love that I will never give you."

"And when I'm done with this little game, when I think that you've suffered enough, then I will give you away, to live the rest of your life longing for me. As I will live the rest of my life longing for my beloved." She smiled, a sweet smile, as if to a particularly delightful student or precocious child. "Doesn't that sound like fun!"

Whitecrow stared at her, refusing to respond to her in any way.

She pouted at him then, "Oh, don't be like that. It'll only hurt when you're bad. Obey and be a good boy, and you'll find yourself rewarded." She leaned forward and whispered into his ear, "It's always the unwilling ones that make the most devoted slaves in the end, you know."

She walked away then, tapping the riding crop against her leg and singing a melody that Whitecrow didn't recognize. Perversely, he decided it was probably a child's lullaby, all things considered. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought. She was clearly and undeniably completely unhinged.

Quite possibly the most terrifying and dangerous kind of person possible.


	8. Chapter 8

**42.**

Whitecrow lost track of time. It could have been hours, it could have been moments, he wasn't sure. But at long last, Sunoree stirred, lifting her head. Her eyes were dreary, her ears drooping disconsolately.

She looked up and saw him, her eyes flashing with recognition, and then despair. "So she found you," Sunoree croaked. "I lied to her so that she would never find you." Her head slumped forward and she began to sob.

Whitecrow fought his bonds, trying to swing his head up far enough to reach the bonds of the gag. His muscles strained and bulged to lift his massive head, accompanied by silence punctuated only by the sobs of the woman he loved more than his own life.

Then, to his surprise, Baruke began to speak.

In broken Common that Whitecrow couldn't understand, Baruke spoke to her haltingly. His voice changed the Common tongue into a guttural, harsh, hard chopping sound. But clearly she understood him, for her head jerked up, and she shrieked in Darnassian, "You came here? Are you insane? She was ready for that!"

"I think we noticed," Baruke said in Orcish.

Whitecrow blew a snort out through his nose and tossed his head on the weary neck muscles. He growled and strained again. If only he could speak, if only he could reassure her!

If only he could reassure himself.

This time, hours passed, with only intermittent tears from Sunoree to drag mercilessly at his aching heart. He only knew that hours had passed because the building filled with the deep shadows of late evening.

Already, he felt despair seeping into him, and realized that he could understand all too well why Sunoree couldn't stop crying. He had failed her; in ways he couldn't imagine when he had set out that morning. He had been arrogantly assured of their victory, and found his forces outnumbered by three to one, or more.

His arms ached, stretched over his head as they were. The muscles of his legs strained constantly, also being tied backwards into a position that was completely unnatural for him to stand in. Physical misery blurred his mind, underscored by a wrenching, heartfelt sorrow and shame. The longer he stood there, watching Sunoree's misery, the deeper his own malaise felt.

He longed even a moment's rest from the constant tearing pain in his back, his shoulders, and his legs. Yet he knew that eventually he would be offered that rest, and that he would resist it with all of his being... at first.

Night fell, and Sunoree drifted off to sleep. She was bound in such a manner that she could sleep, held up bodily by the ropes themselves.

But each time that Whitecrow nodded off, screaming agony tearing through his shoulders jerked him back to wakefulness with a pained grunt. The occasional grunt from Baruke informed him that the orc was thus bound as well.

The night may well have lasted forever, in Whitecrow's haze of pain and exhaustion. When morning finally came, he almost didn't recognize it. Something strange stirred deep within his mind, until he lifted his head and saw the creeping light of pre-dawn as it made its stealthy way across the room.

Sunoree woke, stirring restlessly. She didn't speak, but she also didn't cry again. Whitecrow looked at her once, to find her staring at the floor, seemingly in a daze. His own gaze dropped back to the ground as well. Had he been in his right mind, he might have appreciated the reprieve from the constant presence of her sadness.

Instead, he focused on trying to relieve his legs and arms in turns. With little success with his legs, and even less with his burning arms.

When finally a night elf man walked in with food and drink for Sunoree, and removed the gag from his mouth, to trickle some of the drink down his parched throat, Whitecrow had no idea of the time. He choked on the water, and the man snarled, removed the water, and fed Sunoree. Then he left the room, leaving silence in his wake.

"Whitecrow?" Baruke croaked. "You got any idea how we're gonna get out of here?"

Whitecrow tried to talk, but all that came out was a strangled, woolen-tongued "whoo-all" sound. More attempts just led to continued grunting or gagging sounds, until he gave up.

"S'all right, man. Let your mouth recover, then we'll talk about it."

Baruke's patience only galled Whitecrow further. Where torture and sleep deprivation failed, Baruke's simple readiness to expect Whitecrow to sort the whole problem out drove a stake into his heart.

Because even as he realized that Baruke fully expected him to find a solution, Sunoree didn't. She hung against her bonds, despondent and weakened by food and sleep deprivation. And, no doubt, torture as well.

Another day passed, until the pain was simply a litany of agony that flowed over him like a river. He had been without sleep for so long now that he was nearly euphoric. A look at Baruke told him the same was true for him. Sunoree looked little different.

He and Baruke were offered food the next day. Baruke refused, until he saw Whitecrow eating his own willingly. When the elf feeding them left, Whitecrow said, "We must keep up our strength, even if it's on their food."

He didn't realize his mistake when the hallucinations came. He didn't realize his mistake when the world swam before his eyes. He didn't realize his mistake when the creeping sense of impending insanity overwhelmed him.

It was only hours later when he recognized that eating the food he was offered was simply not an option. The only thing that worked in his favor was the fact that the elf who had dosed it, had misjudged his size or his resistance to the drug.

Whatever the truth was, he would eat no more food here. If he died, at least he would die lucid and in control of himself. No soldier of the Horde should die out of his or her mind and seeing visions of black hecklefangs and white orcs.

When the beautiful elven woman appeared again, she stood in front of him and examined him. "You dosed him correctly?"

The obsequious elf behind her bowed, nearly groveling. "Yes, mistress. I have tested it on other Tauren before, and they seem to be especially resistant to it. So I gave him a double dose."

"He looks lucid to me," she told him.

"Yes, Priestess Aurelia, the usually do. Their eyes never seem to change, even with death. You cannot judge his intoxication by the icethorn brew from such an examination, I'm afraid."

"Well," Aurelia snapped back at him, "how can you tell his level of lucidity, then? I want no mistakes here. He must associate the pain with the euphoria of the drug, or it will take months longer to break him."

"Mistress," the groveling elf said, "I hesitate to point it out, but isn't that what you want?"

"You fool," she snarled at him. "If that was what I wanted, why would I have instructed you to do it at all?" She paced back and forth in front of Whitecrow for a moment. He stared as vacantly as he could at Sunoree, ignoring the Priestess altogether with his vision.

Finally she stopped, looking at him with narrowed eyes. Then she slapped him across the face with the whip so hard that he felt blood trickle down his cheek. A sudden urge to laugh rose in him, and he realized he was still at least partially under the influence of the drug. Instead of stifling it, he let the laugh go, allowing it to rumble up and out of him.

The rolling 'heh, heh, heh' of his laugh seemed to infuriate her, for she began then to beat him across his shoulders and about his head. Even when she struck the sensitive skin on his nose, he found himself laughing maniacally. It was easier, somehow, than letting himself admit that he felt like crying.

When she had begun to slow down, the elf potion-maker behind her finally dared speak. "It's the drug, Mistress. He can't stop himself. You can beat him into next week, and he likely can do nothing but laugh." He cringed when she whirled on him. "It was what you asked of me, Mistress. I could do no less than obey explicitly."

Her lips pursed, but she nodded. "You're right. And you're impertinent." She laid into him, then, three hard slaps of the whip across his back. Blood dampened his shirt, but he stood still and silent, head bowed.

"Now get out. And stay away from me for the rest of the day unless I call for you!"

"As you wish, Mistress, so shall I obey," and the elf left the room.

She turned back to Whitecrow then, and smiled. It was a calculating, cold, hateful smile. But beautiful, so beautiful... Whitecrow fought the surge of lust that flowed into him. In all the years that he'd been apart from Sunoree, he'd never had this response to another woman. And when he'd first seen her, he hadn't responded that way, except to note that she was indeed beautiful.

It was his first inkling that he was truly in deep trouble here, and that he wasn't as resistant to the drug as he had hoped. When his eyes met hers, the fear that had gripped him upon the realization must have shown, because she threw back her head and laughed.

And laughed.

And laughed.

**43.**

One burning slash of the whip had melted into the next. He had been suffering forever. There was only this unending pain. That was all there had ever been. The drug in his system prolonged, expanded, and exaggerated the falling of the whip on his body.

Some dim memory stirred in the back of his mind. Another lifetime, an eternity ago. When he had been reasonably content, and sometimes happy. That life belonged to some other Whitecrow. Someone he couldn't remember ever having been, and knew he would never be again.

And the constant sobbing, the tears that were his, but not his, but that he somehow owned and caused, ate at his soul like an ever-expanding cancer. He could sense Sunoree. He knew her. He sensed that she was from that long-ago time.

But he had ceased to understand the connection. He had ceased to recognize anyone around him, except his tormenter, Aurelia. In the sea of his suffering, he clung to this, calling her only that, never changing it. He defied her, though he couldn't remember why.

He knew that he had to deny her. To disobey at any cost. Why, he didn't know, but he sensed that it was in the distant memory of that other Whitecrow.

He didn't know what time it was, and even the concept of Time itself seemed to be tied to a far distant memory. But he held onto the tears. They tore at him, but they anchored him. They weren't his, but they belonged to him. Somehow, in some way, fundamentally, he knew them to be more precious than anything in the world.

And when they let him down from the bonds that kept him tied to the wall, he bellowed and thrashed in agony as his muscles protested the resurgence of blood. He wallowed and even shrieked, somehow ashamed and yet unable to control the flow of sound.

But then as the pain increased to where he thought he might die simply for the bearing of it, a moment of stark lucidity claimed him. The woman standing over him laughing maniacally was silenced in an instant by the chilling sight of his cold, calculating, aware rage.

"I will kill you, bitch. I will gut you and leave you to feed Aleksose's starved beast, just like he did." The words came from a distance, from that past part of him, the one who didn't exist, but did exist. Who was him, but was not.

"Why you fucking faker," Aurelia said, and her foot slammed home on Whitecrow's nose.

He was lost once more in that sea of drifting agony.

He heard her torturing Baruke one day, and found his rage boiling up in him. When it emerged, as it always did now, it came out as a laugh. He laughed, and laughed. And when her rage prompted Aurelia to begin beating him instead, he found himself laughing harder.

She fancied herself in control, he reckoned, but she was always and forever only a laugh away from being manipulated. He could stop her torture of the others with a laugh, or with a comment. She would turn on him, and he would go back to that sea of pain, where the pain was only his, and thus easier to bear.

He recognized that she was frustrated, though not why. Something was not going according to her plans, but his mind was too deeply fogged by the potion injections he was given.

But somehow, perhaps because of the drugs themselves, he took a perverse delight in creating and increasing this frustration in her.

On one particular day, she began to beat him, and he found himself watching her. In silence this time, instead of laughing, he watched her. She beat him, and this time he felt a strange sense of connection to his body. He felt the whip land on open wounds. He felt blood run in his caked fur.

He watched her as she screamed at him, and beat him, and screamed some more. When she was done, her hair was untidy, her eyes wild. She stood before him, panting and exhausted.

"Break!" she shrieked at him. "Break! Damn you to hell!"

Then, and only then, did he finally laugh. "Who are you trying to break, Aurelia? You've drugged me so deeply that I don't know or remember who I am anymore. You cannot break someone who no longer exists."

She flew into a rage then, and beat him again. He didn't laugh this time, either, simply endured to the best of his ability until she was finished. He still felt detached, distant, lost. Yet he also knew that something inside him was returning.

"Lysandor!"

"Madam?" The tall night elf before them looked merely polite and disinterested, not obsequious, as had the other. He had been dosing Whitecrow recently, rather than the other one.

"Why is the drug not working?"

"It is working, Madam. Perhaps your expectations of what it could do were heightened by exaggerations. I could up the dosage, but I doubt that even his heart could take it for long."

"No, he's right. It's not working. Let him come down off of it."

"To cold turkey him off of it may well kill him as effectively as increasing the dosage, Aurelia. Are you certain you want to risk that?"

"I'm running out of time. There are already rumors of a rescue party being put together again. I doubt that I can get as accurate a time frame as last time, so being prepared will be far more difficult this time." She walked back and forth across the room, tapping her whip against her leg. "I must know if I can break him or not, and soon. If I cannot, then I will break the others. It would doubtless be just as effective as breaking him, in its own way."

She stopped at one of the tables, and dropped the whip onto it in a slow, deliberate motion. When she turned to look at Whitecrow, her smile was cruel, even surrounded as it was by disarranged, wild hair. "No, he will come down off of it. And that my well be part of the breaking in and of itself." She turned to the night elf again, and her lips smiled beneath her hard, cold eyes. "See to it that he doesn't die during the come down."

"As you wish, Madam," Lysandor replied with a bow.

As she left the room, Whitecrow's eyes met Lysandor's. To his surprise, the man slowly, very obviously, very deliberately lowered one eyelid into a wink. Then, leading Whitecrow's eyes, he glanced at Kalandan and back again.

In that moment, despite the presence of the drug in his system, the old Whitecrow understood. Lysandor was there to rescue Kalandan, and knew he would need Whitecrow's help. Temporarily at least, he had an ally whose hands and feet were not fettered.

Lysandor swept from the room, and Whitecrow's head fell against his chest. Soon, without realizing it, he slept his first real sleep in many days. Though there was still some of the drug in his system, unbeknownst to him, Lysandor had already been cutting the dosage a bit at a time.

Because if Aurelia felt she was running out of time, then they were all running out of time.

**44.**

Aurelia had been there for over two hours. Clearly, she was frustrated by the apparent lack of action on the part of the Horde regarding rescuing Whitecrow. She had beat him off and on through those two hours, stalking around the room and glaring in between times.

Oddly, the most pain came with the first blows. After more had fallen, he would become almost immune to the pain. There would be so much that he simply couldn't focus on it anymore.

He was in that state now, so when it came, he was so spaced out that he nearly missed it. "Whitecrow?" It was Malovici. For long moments, Whitecrow's confused mind searched for the source of the call, expecting the Undead man to be standing before him.

"Malo?" Whitecrow wasn't sure if he thought it, or said it out loud, "where are you?"

"W.C., if you can hear me, you've got to raise your head. Look at the corner where the rack is. Your attunement crystal is suppressed in some way, so don't even try to mentally respond. It won't work. Even the chance that you can hear me this close is slim to nothing. But I need to know if you can."

Slowly, as if in a fog, Whitecrow lifted his head. He saw nothing at the corner, but stared directly for a moment. Just as he was starting to think he was crazy and making things up, that his mind had finally cracked, a leather strap stirred.

His heart suddenly hammering, and a greater sense of clarity clamoring for presence in his mind, he nodded once, then let his head droop again.

Even as he lowered his head, the night elf who had been originally dosing him walked into the room.

"What do you want?" Aurelia snarled at him, her ears nearly vibrating in her rage.

"I brought the fire potions you asked for, Mistress," the man said. His face and voice betrayed his own anger at her.

"You're late," she snapped.

"I was delayed by—"

"I don't want excuses! I don't care to hear what you thought was more important than obeying my command."

"Some horde were sighted at the gates," he told her. If anything, his face and voice was even more terse than before.

"Well, why didn't you say so to begin with?"

Not responding, he stepped up to her and placed the vials on the table beside her. Then, suddenly, he stilled, staring directly into the corner where Malovici was hidden by a combination of magic and stealth. "Mistress! Th—"

"Leave! Don't disturb me further!" she interrupted him again. Her eyes flashed with anger and the whip began to flutter against her leg.

"But, Mistress, there's—" This time, his words were cut off by the furious slash of the riding crop against his face. It slashed so deeply into his cheek that white bone gleamed in the brilliant red blood.

"You dare not anger me further, I warn you. Now. Get. Out." She punctuated each last word with a slash of the whip.

His face suffused with barely suppressed rage, he bowed abruptly and, eyes flickering to Malovici's hiding place, stalked out of the room. He left the door open as he went.

Aurelia turned back to Whitecrow. "You've withstood a lot. In fact, I have to give you credit, you've worn my body out, and still you resist." She stepped up close to him, one of the vials held up in front of his eyes. "But you haven't worn out my options, SecCree." She turned the vial, letting light flicker and play in the depths of the golden liquid.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" She laughed then, and pulled the stopper out of the vial.

With a casual flick of the wrist, she splashed some of the liquid across his chest.

As the fire potion struck him, Whitecrow's body jerked and spasmed. A long, low, involuntary lowing sound was dragged from him. It was a sound of deepest torment. It was primitive, evoking shades of his long distant ancestors; primitives in a primal time.

Fire had erupted where the potion struck him, and now flames licked at his fur, and ate his flesh. Stinking black smoke rose into the air, burning the eyes and lungs of the living in the room.

Aurelia laughed, and coughed, a strangle sort of chirping gurgle.

Sunoree screamed as if the pain were her own, pulling against her bonds and crying. Baruke joined her voice with his bellows of frenzied rage.

In the din, Malovici crept across the room towards Aurelia, hoping to disable her with a well timed pinch of the nerves that would render her immobile and unaware for a few moments. He could only hope that he could disable her and figure out a way to stop the fire ravaging across his friend's body.

But even as he crept across the room, Lysandor walked in. Stalled in his efforts, Malovici retreated with excruciating slowness.

"Madam, I brought you an elixir that should increase your endurance." Lysandor told her with a bow.

"I asked for no such thing," she told him casually, eyeing her handiwork on Whitecrow's chest.

"True. However, you are paying me extra for the success of this endeavor. It's only natural that I should do what is necessary to provide for myself, don't you think?" he responded.

She turned to look at him then. "So few of our people appreciate all of nature. Most of them are so hung up on the pretty, soft side. I'm impressed." Her eyes narrowed, "I didn't think you had it in you."

"I'm a businessman, Aurelia. You should know by now what is required to genuinely thrive in business. One cannot be attached to the good, for power is often found in the difficult." He ran one hand casually along the table between them.

"Yet you have always turned my offers down." She looked shrewdly at him.

"I prefer to use the power of nature, not be used by it," he told her in return, his voice dry and unemotional.

She laughed, her face once more transformed into beauty. "You're a coward." She flicked her wrist towards the doorway. "Leave us now."

As she turned back to Whitecrow, Lysandor said, "The potion, Ma'am?"

"Hmm, yes. I will try it later. For now, I'm enjoying the effects of this fire potion." Her voice was final and dismissive.

Lysandor's jaw worked with anger and impatience, but he turned to leave. His eyes met Whitecrow's for a brief flash, and then he left the room, irritated at the unintentional disruption of his plan.

When he left, Malovici began to sneak across the room. It was slow going this time, because the others had fallen quiet, only the sound of Whitecrow's ragged breathing filling the air.

Aurelia raised the whip then, slashing it across the charred flesh on Whitecrow's chest. This time, all that escaped him as his mighty body twitched and strained was a growling rumble. But the sensation was excruciating, and this fact was written in every line of his body. Even in the cramped position he'd been yanked into, his body arched and bucked, involuntarily twisting away from the offending whip.

Laughing, Aurelia picked up the vial Lysandor had just brought in. "Ah, Lysandor, you cowardly cretin. Perhaps you will come in handy, after all." In a single swig, she drank the contents of the potion.

No sooner had she swallowed it, than her eyes rolled up into the back of her head, and she collapsed to the floor.

Panting, Whitecrow stared at Malovici as the other man appeared, as if by magic, right behind her. "Wow, what did you do, man?"

"It wasn't me!" Malovici protested. He poked her inert body and said, "Unfortunately." His voice betrayed a surprising degree of envy, and even in his pain, Whitecrow chuckled weakly.

**45.**

"It was me," Lysandor said, appearing as if from nowhere at the doorway. "Move quickly or you will be recaptured. If that happens, I will blame all on you."

The mercenary attitude actually reassured them, and Malovici immediately began to set Whitecrow free. As he did so, Lysandor went to Kalandan and began to whisper an incantation. In moments, a burst of flame flickered from his fingertips and consumed the icy tomb in which Kalandan had been encased for the last couple of days.

Released from the torturous cold, Kalandan slumped forward, and Lysandor lifted him with a grunt onto his shoulder. "Quickly!" he barked at the others as he moved towards the door, staggering slightly under his burden.

As Whitecrow fell forward, he landed on the floor with a groan that turned into a near howl. With a surge of fresh blood, feeling returned to his suffering arms. So long had they been tied into an unnatural position that the muscles screamed with pain as blood filled them.

He writhed helplessly on the ground for a moment, dimly aware of Baruke doing the same not far from him. Pain lanced through him like fire, and his legs convulsed and shivered as they also got an infusion of fresh blood into starving muscles.

"Get up!" Lysandor hissed at him.

Whitecrow's muscles screamed in protest after so very long in confinement. He desperately tried to shove himself up off of the floor, but the muscles simply wouldn't obey. He floundered helplessly as he trembled and shook for seconds that felt like years. He ground his teeth together, and focused hard, but still the muscles trembled and gave way, convulsing with a will all their own.

One hoof lashed out, shattering the table and knocking stuff off of it. A glare from Lysandor was the result, even as Malovici returned from loosing Baruke's bonds. The much smaller man helped Whitecrow finally crawl to his feet, a defeated turtle being slowly restored from lying helpless upon its back.

Ponderously, with all the strength it would have taken him to run top speed from one end of Kalimdor to the other, he finally took a step, gritting his teeth again like tortured hounds as pain screamed through every inch of his legs.

The group, all moving with torturous slowness, left the whipping room behind, its Mistress lying on the floor like a discarded negligee.

They staggered and swayed down the hallway, Whitecrow finally walking upright and bumbling along the wall—Baruke and now Kalandan doing the same, with Sunoree sandwiched between them.

Abruptly, Lysandor stopped. "This is as far as I go. Now I will go and awaken her, claiming it to be the rogue's fault she lays upon the floor. I will give you ten more minutes, but that is all the time there is left. I wish that I could have given you twenty, but…" he shrugged and left the rest unsaid.

"Why did you do this?" Whitecrow couldn't help but wonder.

"She is a blight upon the face of our people. Now that she has overstepped her bounds, we can finally bring her up on charges. But I cannot be seen to have helped you. If they know of it, then I will be brought up on charges instead, and she will flourish. Now get out before I change my mind and kill you and then charge her. I could still win that way, if I claim I caught you escaping."

"He's lying," Malovici said as they moved further down the hallway.

"Yeah, but whatever the truth is, it's his own business." Baruke sounded distant and cold, his voice angry and harsh. "I'll take what comes, and be grateful for it."

"He's in love with me," Sunoree said. Her voice, in contrast to Baruke's, was sad and measured. "He's saving you for my sake."

"Better man than me," Baruke said. Now he sounded resigned and even sad. "I probably would have killed us all, if I was him."

"I would have killed you all. And I might, anyway. Just for shits and giggles, and because you're being slowasses," Malovici told them. "Not to mention, you're a bunch of ugly sons of bitches."

In an afterthought, "Well, except Sunoree. She can borrow my parts whenever she wants."

"That's so not fucking funny," Whitecrow told him.

A snicker from Sunoree belied his statement and he heaved a sigh. Shaking his massive head he snapped at Malovici, "How much farther?"

"They're keeping an escape portal open for us just beyond the entrance to the temple, and there should be a diversion started at my signal." Malovici slipped into the shadows. "I'll go see what's going on, and make sure the way clears when I call for diversion." Then he was gone.

They crept down the massive stone steps, breathing a sigh of relief as they slipped into the shadows behind it. There, they took a small break Baruke and Whitecrow both slumped to the floor. Kalandan looked dazed and unaware, and leaned wearily against the wall.

Whitecrow found that he was sweating profusely, and as he leaned back against the wall, he wished desperately for the armor he'd lived in for all of his adult life—and sometime prior to that, as well.

The cool of the wall seeped into him, and he let his head roll forward, sighing at what the future might hold. The cold of the stone seemed to him to be a premonition. A silent vow of what was yet to come for him when he arrived back at the desert oasis where he shared a home—or had hoped to—with Sunoree.

"All rounded up for me? How nice of you," Aurelia's voice was a sneer. "If you're going to try to escape, the least you could do is to at least try to get away." She laughed then, and the whip at her side snapped sharply.

"At least now I can kill you," she told them. "The animals will dine well tonight." **Snap** the whip slapped the air again, snaking around her legs as eagerly as her smile played on her lips. It seemed barely restrained, an eager serpent dancing with the desire to kill.

Sinuous and evil, it dominated Whitecrow's vision, and he sank against the stone. He was so tired of being beaten. He felt defeated, as much by the fact that Sunoree hadn't spoken to him since they'd been set free, as by the fact that the escape had so obviously been a failure.

"And as for your friend, don't expect him to come creeping up to save you," she told them smugly. She gestured, and two night elf men dragged Malovici into view, dumping him unceremoniously onto the floor so hard that his head thudded with the finality of an exploding abomination.

Despair seized Whitecrow then, and he slowly rose to his aching feet. Dressed only in a loincloth, and outnumbered, he realized that there was only one thing left to do. He would die fighting.

It was every warrior's expectation in life, and if he could hold them off long enough for the others to be saved, then he would do so. He was a formidable fighter even with his bare knuckles, and he intended to prove it now, even if he had to fight alone—and he could only assume that he did.

Aurelia laughed. "Will you fight it, then? That will make it that much more fun for me." She stepped closer to him, and lowered her voice. It rolled across him, low and husky, "I will enjoy watching your hope die, SecCree. It will be the greatest pleasure I have ever had. You thought yourself unbreakable, but already I see that the spectre of death has shown you that doom is upon you."

She looked at Sunoree then. "And you. What joy it will surely bring you to watch him die, knowing that you hated him." She flickered her hand and Sunoree was encased in the tomb of ice, as Kalandan had been before. Another flicker, and Kalandan was once more encased in ice as well.

Before she could perform the spell again, Whitecrow slammed his fist into her mouth as hard as he could.

She wiped the blood away and laughed. "So that's the way you want it," she smirked. "What fun!"

The whip, released from restraint, bit into his muzzle with a deadly fury. A bellowing roar escaped him. He spared no more time lamenting the nature of his death, and set about doing as much damage to her as he could.

Baruke was locked in combat with one of the other men, but the other circled Whitecrow and grinned wickedly as he slowly swirled his weapon in front of him.

**46.**

Pain blossomed up his arm as if he'd plunged it into a frigid lake on a winter's night. His furred fist connected with Aurelia's jaw with a satisfying 'crack!' and he grinned. As her head snapped back, he followed with a fist to her abdomen that drove her breath from her.

But it also vibrated up his arm and brought incredible pain with it. Unlike him, she wore magically enhanced armor. Hitting it had been an unwise move, although it had brought him a momentary advantage.

She stepped back and glared at him, the whip curling with restless fury. He lifted his fists again, settling back on his rear hoof to wait for her to approach again. Blood dripped from the black fur of his knuckles, but he ignored it.

It was only a matter of time before she would come after him again. When she did, instead of going for her as he knew she expected, he grabbed, lightning quick, for the second man circling Baruke.

With a jerk and a twist, he jerked the dagger from the other man's hand, throwing him quite literally into Aurelia's path.

Now, however poorly, he was armed. But the night elf still had a second weapon, which he immediately transferred to his dominant hand. And now Baruke only battled one man while Whitecrow had the attention of Aurelia and the rogue who had been trying to circle around and hamstring Baruke.

Whitecrow grinned, undaunted by the task ahead of him. He felt bolstered by being armed, despite the fact that daggers were something he had little skill or experience in using.

The whip snaked towards him again, and he felt the involuntary flinch across his skin as it lashed him.

"That hurt no more than the bite of a mosquito," he told her, taunting her and trying to get her to act again. If she closed on him, he would find it easier to parry her, and his own innate reflexes would do the job for him.

The rogue began to circle behind him now, and Whitecrow slashed at him with the dagger. When the rogue responded with a weak attempt at a parry, Whitecrow slammed his fist into the elf's face, cackling maniacally when the blow crunched into the elf's nose with enough force to start it bleeding.

The whip sliced into him again, and Aurelia took the moment of his distraction to close the distance between them, slamming her mace into his side. He took the blow stoically, though the spikes in the mace dug deeply into the meat of his muscles, and the blow left a heavy bruise behind.

Ignoring the screaming agony that burst into his entire right side as a result of it, he slammed the back of his elbow into the side of her head with all his might, feeling the second dagger of the rogue cut deeply into his left shoulder.

Thrown back by the force of his strike, Aurelia staggered backwards. The rogue, sensing his own peril, danced backwards to once more begin trying to circle behind.

This time, when the whip snaked out, it slashed at the raw wound from the mace. But the pain gave him the added impetus needed to lash back—and he caught the whip as it retracted.

With a heave that flashed fire and cold along his side, he yanked the whip from her hand and threw it away from the fight. It lay black and still, a discarded and forlorn thing deprived of all joy or purpose.

Aurelia lurched forward as he yanked the whip, and Whitecrow followed through by grabbing her unprotected neck. There, he clung with all his might, even as he felt her mace being stabbed at his stomach. He shoved her against the wall, trying to pun her other arm with his leg, while he held her neck with both hands.

He ignored the rogue's dagger, feeling it stabbing into him again and again. When it dug into the back of his leg, he tumbled to the ground, an inarticulate roar of rage and pain wrenched from him, all unwilling.

As he fell, he then used the force of his weight to trap her mace, and held her over him. She was an ineffective shield, but her mass, even as she kicked and struggled, slowed the onslaught of the rogue.

The floor swiftly became slick with his blood, but he held on to her neck with all the desperation of a beaten and dying Tauren. He would not give, he would not relent. It was his life for hers—the only hope he had that help might come in time to save the others.

Darkness began to close in on him, and still he clung to the single point to which his existence had narrowed. He would take her with him. It was all that mattered, that he take her with him.

But he was not to succeed. As he slipped closer to the edge of life, the rogue slumped against him, and Whitecrow stared for a moment into unseeing eyes. The elf was dead.

Then he cried out and clutched desperately as Aurelia was jerked from his hands. He had grown too feeble by then to stop it, as blood poured out of him in gushes from multiple wounds.

Lysandor stood beside him, unconcerned by the blood all over the floor. Two elves held the gasping Aurelia between them. The first alchemist who had helped her torture Whitecrow stood before her.

He spoke to her in a voice torn by grief and rage, "Do you love me?"

Aurelia's head lifted and she stared at him, her face a mask of shocked surprise. "Love you? You are nothing, barely even worthy to be in the same room with me! Of course I don't love you!" She shook her arms, tugging against her captors. "Release me at once!"

"You should have loved me," the alchemist said. "You should have listened to me. You should have really seen me."

He leaned forward and yanked her hair back, forcing her to look at him. "You could have had so much, if only you had not become so completely insane."

The knife in his hand slid into her heart through her armor as if it weren't even there. She slumped towards him, and Whitecrow saw tears fall from the alchemist's eyes. "Be at peace now, Aurelia. May your spirit ride free, and may you know you were loved. For truly, I have always loved you. Know that you are remembered as you once were, a bright and beautiful elf full of life and joy. Walk with the wild, and be free at last."

The elf who had been fighting with Baruke stepped away from him, they both having stopped fighting when the others arrived.

When the elves spoke the final benediction for one of their own, he joined in, "Walk in the forests of yore, Aurelia."

Carrying her body and the body of the rogue, the group disappeared up the steps.

Lysandor stopped and turned for a moment. "The way to your friends is clear. But not for long."

Two puffs of fire and Kalandan and Sunoree were free. One more puff, and Whitecrow was levitating off the ground.

"Move quickly, while he yet lives. You may have enough time to save him, though it is doubtful."

And so Whitecrow felt himself pulled and pushed, while Malovici was also unceremoniously dragged. By the time they were aided by their friends, waiting with an open portal to Orgrimmar, he had long since slipped away into darkness.

**47.**

Someone was singing in the void. The voice was distant, and sad. He should have understood the words, but he didn't.

He tried to comfort the plaintive voice, but no words came out. He tried to call out, but the void reclaimed him.

"I will remember you  
Will you remember me?  
Don't let your life pass you by  
Weep not for the memories

"Remember the good times that we had?  
I let them slip away from us when things got bad  
How clearly I first saw you smilin' in the sun  
Wanna feel your warmth upon me, I wanna be the one

"I will remember you  
Will you remember me?  
Don't let your life pass you by  
Weep not for the memories

"I'm so tired but I can't sleep  
Standin' on the edge of something much too deep  
It's funny how we feel so much but we cannot say a word  
We are screaming inside, but we can't be heard

"But I will remember you  
Will you remember me?  
Don't let your life pass you by  
Weep not for the memories

"I'm so afraid to love you, but more afraid to lose  
Clinging to a past that doesn't let me choose  
Once there was a darkness, deep and endless night  
You gave me everything you had, oh you gave me light

"And I will remember you  
Will you remember me?  
Don't let your life pass you by  
Weep not for the memories

"And I will remember you  
Will you remember me?  
Don't let your life pass you by  
Weep not for the memories"

It pulled at him again. This time, he recognized the words, but they made no sense to him.

He sank once more into the void, the final notes of the song pursuing him into darkness.


	9. Chapter 9

**48.**

They came into the void from nothing. Where there had been only he drifting in the void, there came intruders. He was being hunted, and he was young and naked and afraid. Sweat ran through his fur, darkening and dampening it.

Ahead of him, just over the next rise, he knew Sunoree waited. She was, at first, his bastion. The last hope of safety for a terrified young tauren.

But then he topped the rise, and he saw her. She was dying, and suddenly he was no longer the hunted, but the hunter. Now they dragged her away from him, instead of hunting him.

The forest flashed by, and they were just out of reach. He ran with all the speed and power in his mighty legs. He grew tired, but he ran on. Fatigue pulled at him, and he stopped, his breath gone.

And he nearly let go. He felt himself falling into the black of the eternal void, and he sighed. Peace was coming for him. Rest, at last.

Her voice cried out to him, and he looked up. She was vanishing, getting further way. He struggled to his feet. Once more he ran, her sobs rolling across him, salt in the raw wounds of his love.

He ran and ran, and he heard singing, mocking the tearing exhaustion that pressed on him like the mighty anvil of Fjorn. He could barely move now, and he knew that life was departing him. But he lifted one hoofed foot in front of the other, each motion taking an eternity of terrified breaths.

He sank into the abyss, with only darkness around him. He called out to her once, and he heard the song falter. Then he knew no more until he awoke to find himself running again.

They were hunting him again. Sunoree was gone. He ran, panting desperately, his arms flailing as branches lashed at him.

Then they were upon him, and he cried out in deepest agony. He called for her and he wept and told her he was sorry. He fought his attackers, but he was weak. So weak.

Too weak.

Minutes were hours, before at last they ceased tormenting him, and he lay abused and exhausted in the harsh glare of the midday sun.

Darkness came for him again, and the light faded. He cried out for it and reached for it, certain that when it was gone, he would never see it again. But the darkness, a greater foe than he had ever known, took him in its mighty grip, and the light forsook him.

He followed the song into oblivion once more.

The place that promised peace. A place deceptively warm, deceptively cool… a place he could not recall, but felt certain he didn't belong.

Not now. Not yet.

He wanted to hear the song. One last time.

He wanted to tell her that he loved her, and he sobbed it over and over again. But the song was gone, and it was night, and the woods were filled with danger.

He was dying.

He knew he was dying, and he felt bereft. It was as if the world were ending, with all his dreams left undone. If only he knew what they were, and he had a second chance…

But he drifted away again, into the embrace of the dark.

He was floating then, floating on the words of the song. He felt them around him, felt them in every part of his body as if they were physical things.

Was she singing?

It was her voice. Tired, she sounded so tired. As if she had been singing too long, and then longer still. He sighed and then he cried, without knowing why.

Then the darkness came upon him again, and he could no longer hear the song as awareness fled.

**49.**

The room was dark, the timbers over his head barely discernible in the blackness that surrounded him. Vague forms menaced the bed, sinister in their unfamiliarity.

But he noticed little of all that. He was burning with a desperate thirst. His tongue felt monstrous within his mouth, swollen and dry. He felt as if he were being consumed by the very thirst that drove him to wakefulness.

With a heave, he sat up in the bed, trembling and shaking with the effort. His head pounded with ferocious agony, and he stared uncomprehendingly at the half-open door. Moonlight poured in, and it seemed more brilliant than the most painful day.

He blinked in confused pain for several moments, but the desperate thirst would not be ignored. It pushed at him, beating relentlessly against his ribcage like a dying heart crying in its final throes.

He stood by degrees, until at last he was on his hooves, straining and swaying. He clung to the bed, then gathered all of his strength and staggered swiftly to the door. There he hung, clinging to it and gasping desperately.

His hand caught his attention, and for a moment he didn't realize what it was. It was thin and bony, dull in the moonlight. He spread the fingers, still clinging with the other hand to the door.

Then he looked down to find his fur, although well groomed, patchy in places and dull. It looked lifeless, even gray. The fine shine it once had was gone, replaced by bald spots, criss-crossing scars, and clumps.

But even as he stood gaping at himself, the hunger pulsed again, pushing him, driving him. He staggered from the door, his great head swinging back and forth as his nostrils drew in great gouts of air.

When at last his sensitive sense of smell selected a direction, he took several steps that way. But his body was too worn, too exhausted, and he stumbled. He could not catch himself, and he fell to the ground with a grunt.

He was too far from the doorway to drag himself up. He saw trees, but they were far away and in the wrong direction. He struggled for a moment to rise, but his body flopped and refused to cooperate. Pain lanced up and down him, and he lay gasping and stunned.

But ever relentless, the thirst whipped him. A brutal master, it drove him to drag himself, inch by inch, across the sparse grassy sand. He could smell the water. He needed it desperately.

He would die without it, he was certain of it.

His mind was dominated by the need to drink. Everything else ceased to exist, except him, the ground, the water he could smell… and the thirst. The terrible, merciless thirst.

Moments passed as he slowly crawled towards the edge of the pond in Groll's oasis. He dragged a leg forward, and then heaved with exhaustion. Then the other leg. More panting for breath, and then he would move his arms.

Slowly, he would push and drag until he had moved another foot or so. Desperation warred with determination, and he kept crawling.

The thirst pounded at him. Hammered him with each heartbeat. Slammed into him with every breath.

So he moved on, his eyes on the bright gleam coming from the water ahead.

Every few tries, he would stop, resting his chin on the ground, the position awkward and painful. Finally, he turned his head, and it dropped into the sand. Dirt and debris filled his nostril, and his eye filled with sand.

Pain flared, and his eye watered and stung. He grunted, groaning as he righted himself and crawled again. The gain of another foot of ground. So slow, so painful. He feared the coming of the day, knowing it would drive his thirst even higher.

Heave. He pulled forward again. Heave, another few inches gained.

Then hands were there, pushing on him. He grunted and cried out, the thirst beating into him with a savage edge.

He heard Malovici's voice, and felt certain he saw his face, despite the eye he now realized was mangled and scraped from the sand.

"Thirsty," he croaked, his voice weak and insubstantial.

Then water, blessed water flowed into his mouth. He gulped desperately, despite the fact that it was warm, not cold as he had imagined. He gasped and puffed with effort, sobbing when the water stopped.

"Thirsty," he said again, his voice barely louder than before, as his tongue sought to get in the way.

More water came, a mere trickle.

A shout tore into his head and he bellowed, water spewing into the night air. Clutching his hands to his head, he knocked the water skin out of Malovici's hands.

But the shout had done its job—besides bringing Whitecrow terrible pain—and there was the sound of many feet running towards him.

Talking erupted, and he convulsed in pain as the voices assaulted him in their loudness and their cacophony. His body arched backwards as he desperately sought freedom from the agony that burst into his skull like the sun breaking the horizon on a clear morning.

Shushings soon brought much-needed relief, but the brilliance of the moon seemed to have faded, and to his one good eye, everything looked distorted and terrifying. Caricatures of his friends lifted and pulled at him, tugging and jerking and lifting. He struggled vainly, crying out in fear and pain.

Soon enough, blessed darkness and oblivion closed in on him. When they tried once more to trickle water into his mouth later, his body once more ejected it with violent, unaware, heaving vomiting that he was only dimly, distantly aware of.

Then he slept once more; the dark sleep of the dying.

**50.**

"You look like shit," Whitecrow groaned to Kalandan, who lay sleeping in the chair beside the bed.

With a jerk, the night elf woke, and stared at him blankly for a few stunned seconds. Then his eyes narrowed and he grinned, fangs gleaming even in the dark room. "Look who's talking. I thought you were going to be the next undead in this camp."

"Perish the thought," Whitecrow ground out. Then, too tired to continue the conversation, simply grunted, "Thirsty."

"Don't drink much," Kalandan warned. He held a skin to Whitecrow's lips, and this time the water was magically cool and sweet.

He drank it desperately, but it was removed all too soon. "Thirsty," he protested again.

"Drink this now," Kalandan said.

Whitecrow sipped the tea, then choked and spat. "That's foul," he snarled.

"It's one of Tensor's teas, all that's kept you alive this long, you stubborn taunka," Kalandan told him.

But Whitecrow barely heard him as he drifted away into darkness again. Later, Tensor woke him up, and Whitecrow drank the cool water gratefully, spat the tea out again, and managed only a few gulps of broth before he slept again.

Over the next few days, he was awakened to drink, consume broth, and spit out foul concoctions. Sometimes he could make out faces, other times it was just dark forms with familiar voices, always soft and quiet. He had no knowledge of the passing of time, for every time he awoke, it was dark.

He slept and did little else until at last he awakened and felt alert and fully aware. The room was dark, and someone snored softly in a chair beside him.

He fought his conscience, until at last necessity won. He slowly sat up in the bed, finding himself weak and trembling by the time he was done. With great effort, he lowered one leg to the floor, then the other, and stared at them in shock and disbelief.

No longer was he massive and covered in masses of muscle tissue. He was weak and cadaverous. His skin hung from him, fur dull and lifeless. How long had he been ill? What had ravaged his body so?

His needs pressed in on him urgently, and he slowly stood. Then, moving slowly and carefully, he staggered to the door. Pulling it open, he cried out involuntarily when the light washed over him. Slamming the door shut, he leaned back against it and shuddered in residual pain.

"Are you mad? What're you doing?" Tensor's voice came from the chair where snores had once come.

"Got to use the bathroom, elf," Whitecrow said weakly.

"Use the one we put in over in the corner," Tensor said testily, "and then get back into the bed. You go wandering around again, and they'll probably kill me."

Weak and tottering, Whitecrow went the direction the gloomy shape of Tensor had pointed. There, he found a pot, and although it was hardly adequate, he used it gratefully. Then he staggered to the bed and went promptly back to sleep.

He didn't want to think a moment longer about how out of shape and weak he had become.

Or about the fact that he had yet to see Sunoree any of the times that he had awakened.

**51.**

At last he woke and could no longer stay in the bed. He pushed away the broth and refused the tea. "No more sleep. And I want food. Real food."

In concession to his desires, Tensor brought him a thin soup, but demanded he finish the broth. Grumbling, Whitecrow acquiesced. Mostly because he really could have eaten twice that much, he was that hungry.

When he was done, he set the bowl down. "I appreciate the care you've given me. But where's Sunoree?"

Tensor blinked at him in surprise. "She's on the deck out front," he replied. "But—" he said as Whitecrow turned, "be careful."

Whitecrow blinked at him. "Be careful?"

"She's…" his voice trailed off. He sighed heavily. "She's fragile, W.C."

Whitecrow sat blinking at him for a moment, then turned heavily and strode to the door. He had to know, to understand, what 'fragile' meant.

"It's dark enough, I guess you can go out," Tensor grumbled behind him, his tone making it clear that Whitecrow should have asked.

He merely grunted and slowly teetered out the door. So much for his grand entrance—or exit, as it were. But he had to see her.

In the gloom of late evening, he did. She sat on a heavy wooden chair, a blanket across her legs to ward off the growing chill of the night, and another over her shoulders.

She looked at him and gasped, and he stumbled towards her. The instant he saw her, he saw only her beauty, the majesty of his love for her. He knocked over a chair that was in his way, stumbled heavily into the banister of the deck, and then more fell than knelt at her feet.

"I'm sorry," he said, tears breaking from his eyes. "Whatever you want," he said, "it doesn't matter. If you want me to kill Therival, I'll do it. With my bare hands if you wish. Anything to atone for hurting you so!"

She shushed him then. Her hands gently pressed his mouth closed, and she cried out, her voice pained and deep, "No!" She whispered then, "I know you did the best you could. I know it was his choice. It's okay, SecCree, it's all okay." Her voice got softer and softer, until she was barely audible.

Then, she wrapped her hands around his head, as it lay in her lap, and embraced him gently. Softly, gently, she began to sing:

"I will remember you  
Will you remember me?  
Don't let your life pass you by  
Weep not for the memories."

Before she had sung more than the first few strains, Whitecrow found himself clinging to her and weeping. It was the song that had sustained him, called to him, and pulled him back from the void so many, many times.

He understood then that she had been with him, that she'd been there to love and call to him in the darkest hours of his illness and despair.

He cried so deeply that she ceased singing, and cried with him. They wept together there, in the darkness of the beginning of night. They wept together for what they'd nearly lost, for what they'd nearly given up, and each for what the other had sacrificed.

At last, the cold and the fact that Sunoree was trembling penetrated Whitecrow's sorrow and joy and loss and hope. He slowly, painfully lifted his head and stared at her.

He realized immediately that she was very ill as well. Her face looked gaunt, her skin pale and dull. And like a axe to the chest it struck him. He was to blame for her misery and her illness. He knew with certainty that she'd sat by him, and sang to him for so long that she'd made herself ill.

She saw his stricken look, and raised a trembling hand to his cheek again. "No regrets, SecCree." When his eyes narrowed, she said, "Promise me. No regrets!"

His teeth ground against each other and he glared at her. She met him stare for stare, until at last he backed down. "I promise," he said. Softly, but sincerely.

"No more. That's long enough. Come inside and rest now," Tensor said, sharp, pragmatic, and assertive. When Whitecrow didn't move, Tensor snapped, "Now!"

"I'm fine!" Whitecrow lied.

"I wasn't worried about you, you stubborn taunka," Tensor informed him, his one free hand on his waist while the other gripped a crutch. Despite having lost his leg in a battle, Tensor was still a force to be reckoned with.

Whitecrow looked at Sunoree, and sighed. He couldn't help but agree. She looked tired and ill, and her hands still trembled in her lap.

"Ferruk!" Tensor shouted, causing Whitecrow to grab his ears and groan.

Ferruk came trotting from the direction of the central fire.

"The lady's for her cabin now, please."

With a nod, Ferruk came over and lifted Sunoree. He stopped and looked at Whitecrow, "Glad to see you up again, old friend." There was warmth and honesty in his voice.

"She'll stay with me tonight, and from now on," Whitecrow told him.

"The hell you say," Tensor snarled. "She'll not, and that's a fact!"

"And why the fuck not?" Whitecrow demanded, rising painfully to tired and sore hooves. He was ready to fight, no matter how sick he still was.

"Because you'll keep each other awake. You'll pester each other. You'll cry all over each other. You'll talk and grope and carry on. And then you'll both just get sicker!" He hopped belligerently towards Whitecrow, "And I need some god-damned sleep somewhere besides your fucking chair!"

Taken aback, Whitecrow stepped back a pace. "Alright, you've got a point," he conceded.

"Damned right I do," Tensor said. "Just look what you've already done!" He pointed the crutch towards Ferruk and Sunoree.

Whitecrow looked, and saw Sunoree looking wan and barely awake. His ears drooped and he felt like a chastised calf. "Take her to rest," he told Ferruk. "But I'll be seeing her tomorrow, and no one's getting in my way!" This time, it was his turn to glare warningly at Tensor.

Tensor huffed and, ignoring Whitecrow's glare, clomped back into the cabin.

Whitecrow, much more slowly than he came out, worked his way back into the cabin behind him, where he sank gratefully into his bed. He closed his eyes, but couldn't find the sleep his body craved.

If only he hadn't tired her. If only he… He stopped the line of thinking immediately. 'No regrets,' he'd promised Sunoree. It was going to be harder than he'd thought possible!

**52.**

The next day, sunlight filtered in through the new, lighter drapes, alerting him to the dawn. Tensor adamantly refused to allow him to go out into the daylight, and Whitecrow chafed at the excessive care Tensor was taking.

He felt alive, or almost alive. Alive enough that he wanted to go outside and be with Sunoree.

But he soon fell back to sleep, waking through the day to use the 'bathroom' and to eat. In the evening, Tensor told him he could go outside 'for an hour—and not a minute more.'

"Not a minute less," Whitecrow growled back, his mood poor after being held prisoner all day.

So that evening, Ferruk carried Sunoree to the deck, and Whitecrow sat down in the chair beside her. At first, they just watched the final rays of the sunset. But at length, Whitecrow told her, "The big boss has only given me an hour."

They were silent again for a time. Then, he told her, "I don't know what to say to you. It all seems either too much, or not enough."

She looked at him, and smiled. It was a soft, tender smile. "I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you're going to live." She sobered then. "I'm sorry for what you went through."

Whitecrow looked at her, before a sigh breezed from him. "Tensor said you are 'fragile,' Sunoree. Are you dying?'

Her eyes widened for an instant, then she laughed. "No!" Her hand reached out for his. "I'm not dying. I'm just weak and tired. And rather hungry." She patted him with the other hand on top of the one she held. "I don't mean to make light of your fears, but I'm definitely not dying.

"No. You're going to be stuck with me for many years to come, SecCree."

He found himself infected by her mirth, and grinned back. "Sounds like Heaven on Azeroth!"

They fell quiet again then, as sounds of the oasis at night rose around them. The distant call of a hecklefang, the chirping of some kind of insect. The lapping of water on the shores of the small pond, driven by the swishing breeze.

A breeze that brought the scents of water and campfire, and the sounds of friends laughing and talking.

"I never thought I'd do this again. Never thought I'd see any of them again. I felt…" He didn't know how to express it.

"Alone?" Her voice was sad. "I'm sorry. I should have said something. I should have fought harder. I should have…"

He tugged on her hand. "No regrets," he reminded her. When she opened her mouth to protest, he said, "Promise me."

She laughed, a sad sort of laugh. "No regrets."

"Promise."

"I promise."

"I'll hold you to it. No keeping secret regrets, either. We both let them all go. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"So, in the spirit of that, there's something that has to be fixed as soon as we're both feeling ourselves again." Whitecrow looked at her, waiting for her glowing eyes to meet his.

"What's that?"

"Marry me. When we're feeling well, and when we're ready, please marry me. I couldn't live without regret if I didn't at least ask." He hoped he sounded less nervous than he felt, though he knew he was babbling.

She smiled, "I think something can be arranged. I believe there may be a priest or two lurking about here…"

So with that promise lingering between them, they spent the evening chatting about inconsequential things. Somehow, it seemed right to make light talk after that was done.

In the week that followed, Whitecrow came out earlier and earlier, until he was watching the majority of the sunset with her. His eyes adjusted, but Tensor still stressed that since he'd been so very ill, it was better to go slow.

Whitecrow obeyed, but he stayed up later into the night each day, insisting on walking further every day—even if on some days, a few more steps were all he could manage before exhaustion weighed him down.

His fur began to regain its luster, although it was still patchy, and small white scars showed under it where the whip had criss-crossed and the wounds not been Healed. Scars were a fairly uncommon sight on Azeroth, and despite Sunoree's comments that it made him look rakish, he felt subconscious about them.

They began swimming together, the water helping with the rehabilitation of their bodies. Whitecrow avoided sexual interaction with Sunoree, though she initiated several times. He felt uncertain, feared being watched there, and wanted to woo her again. So much had happened, that he felt it needed to be slow and certain again.

So they laughed and played, and he tried to let go of the demons that haunted him. He woke often in a cold sweat, panting and terrified as the comforter wound around his body and held him prisoner.

When it had to be replaced, which had begun to be fairly frequently as he increased slowly in strength again, no one said a word to him about it. He felt humiliated each time, but what could he do?

One day, as they sat in their chairs together—now moved to the edge of the pond—Ferruk walked up to them. He seemed nervous and slightly agitated, but refused to say anything more than, "Come with me. Both of you." Then an afterthought, "Please."

They followed him to the bonfire in the center of camp, where they found their friends waiting for them.

They opened gifts, and found all of their lost armor replaced with gear that had been crafted especially for them. Whitecrow lifted the heavy Titansteel axe, though he found it difficult and taxing.

It was beautiful, though, the craftsmanship superb. It glittered in the light of the fire, and he looked up at Ferruk. "You made this for me?"

Ferruk nodded, then grunted, "Made most of it, but the others helped me get the materials together."

"Thank you, old friend. You have no idea what this means to me."

"I might," Ferruk said. His voice was gruff and he was looking away.

Whitecrow couldn't help but smile when Nerissa's hand snuck over and slipped into Ferruk's. Ferruk's wife knew he was a kind and compassionate man, but of course, he would only admit to behind honorable and mighty. Like any proper orc, naturally.

For the first time since he'd come out of his coma, Whitecrow slept a peaceful sleep that night, the beautiful crafted axe gleaming slightly on the table beside him.

**53.**

Sweat ran off of him, dripping from his fur. He swung the axe again, trying to cut under the oncoming uppercut from Ferruk. Ferruk's mace slammed downwards, crash roughly against the great axe Whitecrow was wielding. Pain jarred up his arms and through his back.

The pain was a remembered thing, a slinking, sly memory that had lain buried, waiting for the opportunity to pounce. Rage flared up in him, a violent frenzy of confused perceptions of torture, of being whipped, of being burned.

Suddenly, as if of its own accord, the axe jerked upwards, slamming viciously into Ferruk's helm, whose magically reinforced mail clanged and then gave, though slightly. Blood gushed from the flat nose of his opponent, and Whitecrow's rage built.

As did his hunger for more of that. More blood. A creeping desire for it snarled up inside him, and he swung again with a bellowing roar that drowned out Ferruk's shocked protest. The offending axe barely slowed as it reversed and raced towards the stunned Ferruk, in his downgraded gear.

The violent 'clang!' of an intruding sword drove agony up his arm again. Whirling on his new foe, the whites of Whitecrow's eyes showed as immaculate rage towered inside him. He swung viciously, and the other warrior parried easily, knocking the axe into a dizzy curve away from the intended target.

Which only incensed Whitecrow further. He drove low, grunting as the axe impacted heavy, shielded armor, bouncing harmlessly off of it.

This time, he bashed his shield upwards, driving again for the face of the opposition. He would not be captured. Not this time. Never again!

An insane passion rose in him then, and he whipped the axe around, driving it towards Groll's head with a resounding 'crash' as it slammed against the sword that ever seemed to hold him from his objective.

So powerful was his blow, though, despite his weakened state, that Groll, having not expected it, lost hold of his sword, even as numbness spread up Whitecrow's arm and he dropped the axe.

Undeterred, Whitecrow lurched against the orc, grasping for his neck with fingers that could barely feel. The struggle was minor, for even with magically enhanced armor, Whitecrow was nowhere near Groll's power. Especially since Groll wore his standard gear, while Whitecrow's was practice gear.

Despite being thrown off so easily, Whitecrow didn't let go of Groll, trying to drag him off-balance.

With a sigh, Groll slammed his head forward into Whitecrow's nose. Fireworks went off in his head, bright, burning, and searing. Blazing colors flashed in front of watering eyes, and Whitecrow's rage blew away like chaff.

"Bloody hell, man, that hurts!" Whitecrow tried to staunch the blood flow with an inadequate hand.

"Get ahold of yourself, W.C. You're supposed to be training and getting back in shape, not killing your sparring partner!" Groll's face was a mask of anger and disappointment.

The look lanced into Whitecrow's conscience, and he suddenly realized he was surrounded by the people of the oasis. Even Sunoree stood staring at him in stunned shock, her face blanched of color and her eyes wide in what might have been fear.

He turned and stumbled away, his tail tucked in, and pain tightened like a seductive and deadly noose around his chest. He tried to breathe, but something in his throat interfered, so he gasped and struggled, unaware that he was fighting the tears more than trying for air.

He felt a strange mixture of fear, shame, and rage. It bubbled inside him, seeking outlet. He stumbled towards the cabin, but saw a chopping axe, sticking up from its log. Fiercely, he grasped it, and began to split wood, every chop gratifying on some primal, instinctual level. Each one a litany of his freedom—and a reminder of his captivity.

The strike of the axe splitting the wood sounded like the slap of the leather whip against his hide.

**54.**

He'd accompanied Ferruk to Dalaran again. It was the third time that week, and he found himself preoccupied by a woman across the bar from him. The Legedermain wasn't really his kind of place. And he generally didn't appreciate getting stuck sitting there waiting.

But he'd waited because his body tired too easily still, from the lingering sickness. He was recovering, but so slowly. He ached in every part of his body even now, but another feeling was starting to come over him.

He was watching a Tauren woman as she cleaned tables. He'd seen her there before, and he'd noticed her lovely markings. But something about her today caught his attention and held it. He also caught her scent, and it was earthy, deep, and cool.

"Wut're you doin'?" Nantu asked him, plopping down backwards on the chair beside him with a deft twist of her wrist.

"Nothing," he said, looking away to hide his guilt.

"Ain't nothin' I'm seein'," Nantu told him. Her eyes narrowed to a slit. "Yer lookin' at that heifer over there like yer wantin' a bite or two."

Whitecrow's ears snapped back against his skull in anger—mostly at himself. "I'm not!" he protested, too vehemently.

"Know what I'm thinkin'? I'm thinkin' yer scared. I'm thinkin' yer scared to go back an' find Sunoree won't be wantin' ya that way anymore. Not now's you got scars all over, and ya wake up screamin'." She leaned towards him, "I'm thinkin' yer feelin' like ya ain't really a bull no more."

He surged to his feet, towering over her, fists clenched at his sides. "Don't you talk to me like that. You're my friend, but I don't have to stand for that!"

She stood up slowly, her body swaying slightly, almost seductively. "If yer gonna cheat on yer love, ya jus' as well cheat wit' someone what knows ya."

His nostrils flared, and he took a step towards her, the fur on his neck rising. "Don't be a crass bitch. I'm not going to cheat on Sunoree! Ever!"

"Ya's already cheatin' in yer mind, W.C. Dat ain't 'nough to hurt 'er?"

"I hate you," Whitecrow told her. "I really hate you. You're a tiresome, meddling, interfering bitch. You always have been."

"Dat be why ya's keeps me 'round, W.C.," she answered, crossing her arms and drawing to her full height. "Ya can't intim'date me. I's knows when I's right."

They stood staring at each other for a moment, until Ferruk called from the doorway for Nantu. She turned to walk towards him, then stopped. Turning to face him again, she said only, "Da only shame ta be foun' in wakin' up screamin', W.C., is in havin' nobody dere ta comfort ya when it happens."

Then she was gone, and Whitecrow was left alone with his thoughts.

He looked up at the Tauren woman again, and found he'd lost all interest in her. Although, he couldn't deny that she still smelled nice. He walked up to her, and asked her where she got her perfume. She told him she got it in Orgrimmar, and he went immediately to purchase some.

He smiled as he patted it in his pocket. Then he pulled out the small stone that would take him home.

Home to take the risk of letting his beloved find out that he woke sometimes in the night, screaming and panting. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, after all.

Nantu, however, was still an interfering bitch! He grinned as the magic closed in about him.

**55.**

The door banged as it swung wide on its hinges and met the wall unceremoniously. Whitecrow's grin crossed his face, as he saw the startled look on Sunoree's face.

One hoof absently slammed the door shut behind him as he came into the room with the gift in his hands. He pulled her to him, ignoring the soapy water on her hands. He kissed her then, softly exploring her lips. Then he pulled away to let her open the present, not relinquishing his grip on her.

She smiled when she saw it, and then started to uncork it. But he stopped her, and set it down.

"Wait," he told her, then he tugged her tunic up and over her head.

She blinked in surprise, and then slowly a smile worked its surprised way across her face.

"I want to see you in this," he said, holding up the bottle. "And only this."

He loved the way her eyes sparkled with anticipation. He loved the softness of her skin, the tickle of her long hair on his muzzle.

She pulled his shirt off over his head, and he let it go. Then he pulled her pants down, letting them slide to the floor under his hands. He ran his hands down along her hips, following the pants as they glided down.

Without pausing, he picked her up, her head nearly brushing the high cabin ceiling, her hips being at his chest level.

He dumped her on the bed, and pushed her hands away from his pants. Then he stood up and looked down at her. She sprawled across his bed, her skin almost glowing in the light filtering softly in through the curtains. Her hair draped the bed, bright and shining against the dark cover.

She was smiling at him, despite the scars that criss-crossed his torso and left white streaks through his once perfect, shining black fur.

Smiling at him in invitation.

More than that, though, he could smell her arousal. It wafted up towards him, coupling with the perfume, as their bodies would soon do with each other. He leaned forward, and kissed one of her calves, tossing a boot aside, then the other while he drank in the scent of her skin.

Clean and fresh. Sweet, with the scents of leather, and grass. And Sunoree.

He found himself hopeful that she'd wear the perfume only rarely, for she came with her own, sweeter and more divine than anything any bottle could produce.

He told her so, as his kisses took him up towards her hips, towards her belly. There, the scent of perfume was strong, and mingled with her own scents. He found that her scents made everything better.

Then he found the nub of one nipple, and lathed it with his tongue. Her body arched against him, and he leaned on one arm, using the other hand to draw the breast up so that he could take more of it into his mouth.

He used lips and tongue to pull, tug, and tease the hardened nipple. He ignored the fact that his penis had left the sheath, and even had pushed past the loose tie of his breeches, until he felt the softness of her skin against it as he leaned forward to take the other breast.

He felt her hands running across his shoulders, and curling around his ears and through his mane. A low, satisfied grumble escaped him when she used his mane to pull him closer, arching her body and rubbing against him like a satisfied cat.

He pushed her backward as he slid down her body and she made to follow. He gave her a mock-glare, and she grinned at him. His penis stirred in response, desire powering through him like a herd of elekks stampeding on the plains of Borean.

But he was no green youth. He was a bull now, and no matter how long it had been, he would make this eager body wait.

He was between her legs, then, and first he blew a deep, hot breath onto her, causing her to squirm and grab the pillow behind her. Then he sucked in a swift breath, cooling the heated skin. She cried out as the cold was replaced by the heat of his tongue.

His agile tongue easily worked in between her lips, pushing them aside to seek the prize within. She squirmed and bucked against his face, making his penis jerk in lustful delight.

Then his tongue slipped inside of her, finding the ridges at the top of her vaginal tunnel. She cried out again and unconsciously humped against his face as he delved in and out, pressing and releasing, then coming all the way out to slide up and down and tease at her clitoris.

Back in he went, his tongue sliding in and out of her, his nose damp with her liquids and filled with her scent.

Her foot shocked him as she found his penis with it, and began to slide up and down it, lubricated by his own lust. He found a strange rhythm, thrusting into her with tongue, and against her soft foot with his penis.

He legs closed in on his head, and he found himself forced to hold them apart to continue lathing her with his tongue. When she came suddenly, he was perfectly positioned to capture the clear, liquid evidence of her pleasure. It squirted into his mouth as she squirmed on the bed, gasping and moaning and crying out as her body was wracked by waves of pleasure.

When she lay, spent and panting, he grinned at her again. She tossed one of the small pillows at him. "Don't be smug, now!" He only grinned larger. She could not deny that she had found great pleasure with him. Her body had made that much clear.

He stalked up the bed towards her, and grinned as she leaned up to kiss him, either uncaring or even aroused again by the taste of herself on his lips. She undulated beneath him, and he tasted her breasts again, before turning her over and pulling her up.

She rose willingly, but he stopped her from transforming, seeing her fingers about to flicker into the change. He looked down at her magnificent body, her hips resting against him. It was not a sight he would ever get to see at the completion of his passion, he knew.

But it was stunning and beautiful, to say the least. He leaned forward and reached under her to knead one of her breasts. He kissed her neck, brushing the hair away. Then he reached down and released himself from the remaining confinement of his breeches.

"Now," he said softly, and her form shimmered, misted, and altered. Her tail already positioned well, he was able to slide straight into her cat form.

He slid into her slowly, until he was fully nested inside her. Then, she began to purr, and he felt the sensation all the way from the tip of his penis, and in his scrotum, to the bottom of his hooves. The deep vibration was sensual, sexual, yet comforting.

He gasped slightly, trying not to give in to the sudden urge he felt to release immediately. Then he drew out, thrusting back in fully, and savoring the rumbling vibrations. Several more thrusts, and he began to pick up the pace, until her vibrating purr increased, making him gasp and lean up to grasp fur between his teeth.

Some primal urgency rose within him then, almost as if it were activated by the ancient act. He thrust into her again and again, wild and abandoned as he drove into her body repeatedly. She made soft mewling sounds under the purring, that spurred him on to thrust faster, deeper, harder.

But then some sense of consideration interrupted him, and he reached between her soft, furred legs. There, he found what he was looking for—her cat anatomy was no so dissimilar from her Night Elven body, and she reacted much the same way when he flicked her clitoris. She arched, her back curling and then releasing like a spring.

When he felt her convulse, and heard her near-yowl, he returned to thrusting into her, rough and without patience, he thrust until he felt his own release coming.

He felt it first in the tightening in his groin, and then he felt the cum flow the length of his penis, pulsing all the way in waves of pleasured delight. When it released inside her, he felt her vaginal walls pulse around him again, as if feeling him release inside her brought her to another release of her own.

He leaned against her a moment longer, letting the pleasurable sensations subside.

His legs trembled and shook, and he realized he was at the end of his strength.

Slowly, he pulled out of her, his penis already beginning to shrink. As he slipped out, some of his cum followed him out, and he found it erotic to watch the white liquid slip down the black lips of her feline vulva. Then she altered, and it was even more sweet to him to watch it run down the inside of one lilac colored leg.

Her lips there were swollen from their lovemaking, and he couldn't help but reach out and touch them, running his finger along it, delighting in her responding gasp.

But then his legs gave out, and he tumbled onto his back on the bed. To his surprise, and secret delight, she took his finger into her mouth, cleaning their combined juices off of it. Then she tumbled down onto his chest, and he held her tightly.

"I'm glad you're feeling better," she said softly.

He grinned down at her. "Are you, now?"

She laughed in return. "Yeah, I am."

"Well," he said in a wheedling tone of voice, "I'll need lots and lots and lots of exercise to get back into shape. Tensor told me so."

"He did, did he?" she smirked.

He nodded solemnly. "He was quite adamant about it, I might add."

"Well, I guess we shall have to find some way to get you lots of exercise," she told him, perfectly deadpan.

And true to her words, she found a lot of ways to get him exercise over the ensuing years. Not all of them pleasant… but all of the pleasant ways, were so very, very pleasant indeed!


	10. Chapter 10

**56.**

It was cold and early the next day when Whitecrow got up. Picking up the axe from where it lay across the arms of the chair beside the bed, he walked outside. Soon, his muscles were straining as he swung the axe back and forth in circles and rings and figure eights.

Though his muscles strained and groaned with the effort, he kept at it, rejoicing at the soreness that told him that muscles were growing and strength was returning. He looked to the horizon as the sun rose, and smiled in an ancient greeting, passed on from generations long since dead and gone.

It almost felt that morning as if they were all there, on the horizon, rising with the sun. The future was bright for him, no matter what life brought. He had faced his hell, and he had come home.

He practiced more until weariness made him drop the axe onto his shoulder and slowly walk to the cabin. Inside, he was unsurprised to find the bed empty and neatly made.

He went back out, leaving the axe lying back in its customary position. He determined later to make a rack for it.

Then he stopped and smiled. Home, he supposed, must surely be the place where you hang your axe.

Soon he found himself making his way towards the water, where he saw that his usual seat was taken. When he saw who it was that sat beside Sunoree, he turned and left them together in peace.

The air was still chill, so he sat down at the central fire, soon to be joined by first Ferruk, and then Groll. Not long later, Nerissa and Shantille joined them.

"Where's Sunoree?" Shantille asked him.

"She's sitting by the water, talking with Therival. I decided to leave them be. Perhaps something may be salvaged of their relationship."

"He remembers much more than most Forsaken," said a voice from behind them, creaking and groaning like old oaks. "He also feels more. I'm uncertain if I envy him that, or find him to be a fool for it." Malovici sat down across from Whitecrow.

"I know you," Whitecrow said with a grin. "You think he's a fool."

"True. With all this 'love is in the air' business, I'm off to find some work in Northrend," Malovici said. "Arthas is dead, and there are rumors of Twilight Dragonflight at the Wyrmrest temple."

"We're going with you," Ferruk said, and Nerissa nodded.

"I'm coming, too," Whitecrow said.

The others looked at him in surprise. "Not staying with Sunoree?" Groll asked him, brutish eyebrows rising.

"I'll be back," Whitecrow said. "But I've got to get my hooves wet again. I can't go on like this. I need to feel useful."

They all knew that his experiences followed him into the darkness of night, and so none made mention or comment. It was a long journey, if they chose to travel overland. And to give their friend time to recover, they would do so.

"First, though," Ferruk told Whitecrow, "we've got to spend some time getting you some better gear. I know you appreciate it, but that axe isn't quite the thing."

It was some six months later before they were ready to go.

When it was time for them to go, Sunoree explained to Whitecrow that she wouldn't go with them. It would be too difficult socially for all of them, and she had undertaken study with Tensor anyway.

She was unwilling to give up her studies, having found an incredible fascination with alchemy, the study of herbs, and the study of the non-magical healing arts.

They would miss each other, they both knew. But as the years passed, they both found that they had to go, and return, and go and return. It was the reality of their lives, but the reality of the love and the bond they shared was so strong that, no matter how often separated, they remained faithful to each other.

As the seasons passed, and changed, Therival seemed to grow more and more Forsaken, though his love for his sister alone among all of his attributes seemed unchanged.

Lysandor showed up one day at the encampment. He didn't stay long, but they were pleased to get the chance to thank him.

Another cabin sprang up, and in the following spring, it was found to be occupied by Kalandan and Cindrelle with fair regularity. The oasis grew slowly, but steadily, creating its own unique atmosphere of permissive cautiousness.

Whitecrow and Sunoree could be together here in freedom and peace. Sunoree made her own name for herself as a healer, and between she and Tensor, there were few who came for treatment, even in the darkest hours of the Twilight War, who didn't receive the best of care.

Whitecrow eventually learned to carry his scars with honor, though it was a long time in coming. And if he still woke up, years later, in a cold sweat some nights, no one ever mentioned it.

Life went on, like it always does.


End file.

Warcraft, Adventure, Romance